I pocketmy phone and slide into the driver’s seat, my teammates’ teasing fading into the background as my thoughts drift to where I’m headed next—Damon’s office, the only place I allow myself to show emotions regarding my brother.
Gravel and dust kick up around the truck tires as Byrdie crawls nice and slow. She jerks side to side ever so slightly as I take the bend on the winding dirt road that leads up to Damon’s building.
I pull off my shades as his humble abode peeks out from behind the tall woodland trees and squint, letting my blue eyes adjust to the sunlight stretching across the high mountain peaks.
I park and kill the engine. Byrdie’s headlights wink at me as I lock her up and take the trail to the property. It’s only a short walk, but in these few minutes I’m basked in a sense of restfulness as I take in the nature around me.
Everything about this location is peaceful, from the breeze to the stillness.
I’m grateful that I’m here, but more importantly, I’m relieved Damon didn’t turn out to be like every other therapist I’ve had. They treated me as though I was nothing but a piece of meat.
But not him.
Damon greets me a second or two after I knock on his door. As I enter the room, citrus fills the fresh morning air—cool and crisp, with hints of lemons and oranges. The hardwood herringbone floor sparkles under the rays of sunshine coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Damon built this space for his high-profile clients, wanting to give them a safe space away from spotlights and cameras, and I can’t think of a better place for it than right here.
Two blue leather armchairs face each other, the leather worn in obvious places where others before and after me have sat and shared their fears, worries, and insecurities.
It hits me then, choosing a therapist is similar to choosing a sofa. You don’t buy the first one you see, but you shop around and get a feel for what works before making an investment.
My six-foot-four frame fills the seat as I lower myself into the chair and watch Damon do the same on the opposite side of me.
He reaches for the coffee table beside him on his right and pulls out his glasses from a case that says,“Happy Forty.”Putting the round frames on his pale, freckled face, he rests his hands on top of his khaki slacks.
I rub my calloused hands together, the roughness coming from years spent gripping sticks and weights. My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them onto my gray sweats, but the discomfort doesn’t fade.
Turning to face the windows, I stare at the mountains—soaring peaks bathed in sunlight. The sky is a bright blue, the trees below full and green.
The mixture of voices and laughter hovers in the air for a moment, and with it comes the atmosphere of draft day, pulling me back to lighter days.
My best friend, Jack, was on stage with me. Our families, and our other best friend, Brodie, were in the crowd, roaring and cheering as if the whole event was just for us. That feeling ofholy shit—we did itwhen we saw our names on the back of NHL jerseys for the first time was surreal.
Jack and I had been picked third and fourth overall for the Flying Tornadoes. Just two teenagers from Huxley Bay High School suddenly heading to the big leagues. It was, without a doubt, the best day of my life.
The draft is where it all began. It was the birthing moment of what the rest of our lives would become. But now, the very idea of getting back on the ice after what happened to Jack and me has my stomach bottoming out.
It’s been six months since our accidents.
Mine took me out of the season.
Jack’s took his life.
I’ve been working to get back on my feet ever since. It’s been hard—fighting to leave the hospital, combating my pain and injuries, as well as the rehabilitation, but I’ve done it.
“Chase?”
“Huh?” I lift my head to Damon as my thoughts burst.
“What were you just thinking about?” he asks,
“The accidents last year,” I say after a pause. “It’s, um… It was Jack’s birthday yesterday. There’s a private celebration for him tonight at Hendrick’s Bar. He would have been twenty-five.”
Damon nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He lets me sit with my own thoughts. He knows I hate it when he uses the silence to make mereflect.All it does is remind me of what Ihadand all I’ve lost.
The truth is, I feel suffocated by the past, stuck in the present, and unsure about my future.
It’s fucking exhausting, and I want to turn it all off.
