Deafening silence envelops me in the coldest embrace. This is the quietest I’ve ever heard the arena. It’s eerie. The type of silence you only hear in the dead of night … when crickets sing and moonlight shines through the windows.
I feel like that’s where I am right now—stuck outside, staring in and watching this all happen to me as if I weren’t at the center.
Andy pats my uninjured shoulder, but I don’t feel the contact or any of its warmth. The numbness has begun to spread, stretching outwardly to every inch of my body.
Maybe every part of me is giving out for good.
Maybe this is it.
It’s shocking that it’s not until this very moment that I wonder if I’ll even survive this. But I’ve lost a lot of blood … and if I continue losing it at this rate, I can’t imagine that I’ll last much longer.
Will the vision of my crying and distraught teammates be the last thing I ever see? Will my parents be forced to say goodbye through a screen?
Without thinking, I lift my right hand and turn my thumb down and leave it for only a second before forming the ASL sign forI love you. If this is it, I want them to know I’m thinking of them too.
Britt, one of my teammates, comes into view, and I turn my head to see more of my hockey family sobbing as they watch me approach the bench.
Their mouths move as I’m wheeled by, but I can’t hear a word anymore. The silence has overtaken me completely.
As the wheels find the rubber, I glance at the crowd and am blinded by a thousand phones taking pictures and recording.
I can’t even see the faces of the last people I might ever lay eyes on, each person concealed behind a lens.
It’s the last thing I remember before everything goes black.
CHAPTER 1
SHAY
I’m never going to play hockey again.
I’m not a complete fucking failure.
The day isn’t full of misery and disappointment.
My arm is never going to recover.
I have no purpose.
Lorea, my therapist, wouldn’t approve of these for my positive sticky notes, but I like them. Although, at this point, she doesn’t really follow up about them anymore. It’s self-managed at this point, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear Lorea’s voice in the back of my mind.
I’m doing great, controlling the things I can control.
I cringe at the positivity but know that Lorea would approve so I don’t crumple and toss this one into the bin. Instead, I stand from my desk, note in hand, and walk over to my sticky-note wall that's plastered in multicolored notes from the past two years.
Some notes have moved on to sticky-note heaven after falling to the ground or being destroyed from minor crashouts on my part. But a majority of them have managed to stay in place, smothering me in optimistic phrases.
Even though I don’t always love playing Ms. Upbeat, it’s become a concrete ritual of my mornings. Before I brush my teeth or check my phone, I roll out of bed, go to my desk, and write a note or two.
It’s a way for me to set the tone for the rest of the day and not let anyone else influence the first few minutes.
My phone chimes from my bed, and I don’t need to check it to know what it’s for—a reminder for my therapy appointment this morning. But then more notifications come through, text after text.
Grabbing my phone from the bed, I check the continuous flow of texts. The pinging starts to make my skin feel too tight on my body and my head cloudy.
Quickly, I flip the switch on the side and mute the ringer, desperately needing the quiet.
Countless notifications await me as I unlock my phone, much like any other morning, but even more so since my accident. Especially since then.
