The howl that escapes him echoes off the arena walls, raw and animal. Every other player has frozen mid-stride, sticks hanging loose in their gloves. The crowd’s roar dies to an eerie silence—the same suffocating quiet that descended when I took my career-ending fall. You could hear someone’s sharp intake of breath three sections away.
Devin is already up and moving, her sneakers sliding on the ice as she rushes toward Richie. I scramble after her, nearly losing my footing twice before dropping to my knees beside them.
“My knee!” Richie's face is twisted in agony, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Oh God, my knee!”
I didn't see what happened. I should have been watching, should have been paying attention instead of daydreaming about Devin like some lovesick teenager. What kind of coach misses his own player getting injured? The guilt sits heavy in my chest, mixing with something else—a creeping dread that makes my hands shake.
“Okay, don't move.” Devin's voice is steady, professional, her hands already assessing without actually touching the injury. “You'll be all right. The medics are on their way to check you out.”
The rink feels like a vacuum, all the air sucked out. My vision starts to strobe at the edges, little flashes of light and dark. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to clear them. No. Not now. I can't have a panic attack here, not in front of everyone, not when this kid needs me to keep it together.
The ambulance takes forever. Or maybe it's just minutes that feel like hours. Richie keeps crying out, each sound like a nail being driven into my chest. His parents aren't even here—they’re driving from a work meeting, hoping to make the third period.He’d been talking about it in the locker room before the game, how his mom had an important presentation but promised she’d try to make it.
“You okay?” Jeff's hand lands on my shoulder as the medics finally get Richie onto a stretcher, carefully maneuvering him toward the exit.
Do I not look okay? My forehead is slick with sweat I hadn't noticed until now, my shirt sticking to my back. “Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I'm good. I'll walk out with them.”
The cold air outside the rink hits like a slap, but it doesn’t help the growing tightness in my chest. The medics are sliding Richie’s stretcher into the ambulance, their movements efficient and practiced. He couldn’t even stand up, couldn’t put any weight on that leg. Just like I couldn’t use my wrist after?—
“Are you coming?” Devin pauses at the open back doors of the ambulance, one hand on the frame. It takes my brain a second to process that she’s asking if I’m going to ride along.
My throat constricts. The last time I was in an ambulance, I was the one on the stretcher, my wrist shattered, my career over before I even knew it. The parking lot tilts slightly, the ground seeming to shift under my feet. I swallow hard, force the words out.
“Yeah.” There's no choice here. I'm Richie’s coach. His parents aren’t here, and he needs an adult with him. He needs me to be strong, to be the responsible one. My issues, my trauma, my pathetic freak-outs—none of that matters right now.
I haul myself up into the ambulance, the metal floor vibrating under my feet as the engine idles. The smell hits immediately—antiseptic and plastic and something else, something that takes me right back to the worst day of my life.
The hospital is only a few minutes away, but each one stretches like taffy. Devin murmurs reassurances to Richie whileI sit frozen, gripping the bench seat so hard my knuckles turn white. When we arrive, I jump out first, eager to escape the confined space, then help guide Richie’s stretcher out.
The automatic doors slide open with a mechanical whoosh, and that smell intensifies—industrial cleaner trying to mask something underneath, something sick and scared and dying. My feet carry me forward a few steps before everything starts to tilt.
I freeze just inside the entrance while Richie disappears down a hallway flanked by medics and nurses. The fluorescent lights are too bright, making everything look washed out and unreal. The walls start to sway, or maybe I’m the one swaying. That terrible feeling creeps in—like nothing is real, like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
Heavy breathing fills my ears, someone gasping for air like they’re drowning. It takes a moment to realize it’s me. My chest feels crushed, like someone parked a car on my ribs. My hand shoots out to brace against the wall, but it doesn’t feel solid. Nothing feels solid. I’m dying. This is what dying feels like.
“Oliver?” Devin's voice cuts through the fog, but it’s too sharp, pitched too high with worry.
I shake my head, can’t look at her. Can't let her see me like this—weak, pathetic, falling apart over nothing. She moves closer, tries to wrap her arms around me, but I push her away. The word comes out as barely more than a rasp: “No. Just go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice is firmer now, steadier. “You’re having a panic attack, Oliver. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
This time when she wraps her arms around me, I don’t have the strength to fight it. My body sags against hers, and she holds my weight without complaint.
“Slow inhale,” she instructs, her voice close to my ear, warm and anchoring. “One... two... three... four... Now hold... Slow exhale... One... two... three... four...”
The world feels like it’s dissolving around me, reality slipping through my fingers like water. Devin’s voice is the only thing that feels real, the only tether keeping me from floating away entirely. I pour everything I have into following her instructions, matching my breathing to her count even though my lungs feel like they’re full of concrete.
“Good. Again. Inhale... One... two... three... four...”
Gradually, painfully, the world starts to solidify again. The floor becomes real under my feet. The wall against my palm stops shifting. My vision sharpens from that strange, dreamlike blur back into focus. Devin’s arms are still around me, my face buried in her hair. It smells like vanilla and something medicinal—probably from the athletic tape she uses. Her heartbeat thumps steady and sure against my chest.
“Thank you.” The words come out destroyed, barely recognizable.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, and I wish she wouldn’t. Her eyes are too kind, too understanding. I don’t deserve that look, not after falling apart like this.
“You're welcome,” she whispers.
“I'm sorry.” The apology tumbles out before I can stop it.
