My accident has become the only thing people associate with my name anymore. My social media pages are constantly revolving posts about that day, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
I try to avoid looking at the daunting social media notifications for as long as I can, forcing my eyes to read the thread of texts from the team’s group chat first, promptly titled Britt’s Babes. We changed the name a thousand times, but Britt kept changing it back, and eventually, we gave up.
This group chat first started years ago, long before my last day on the ice. But at least then, I was a much more active participant and not just an outsider, looking in, watching everyone else’s dreams come true.
Even though I would give anything to get back on the ice and chase that dream myself, I’m glad they get to do it. But I don’t always feel as empathetic as I should.
Oftentimes, I’m selfish and mean, pissed off at the world. Pity parties are thrown in my mind, piñata and all. But the bat isn’t releasing candy, rather spiraling thoughts of self-doubt and anguish. Where I beat myself up mentally over and over until I shut down altogether.
Lorea has helped me get better at stopping those shit shows before they happen. But it’s not a flawless system. I still malfunction sometimes.
And that’s perfectly okay, Lorea would probably say if she could hear my thoughts.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I remember how I ended up at this rambling mental place.
I force my attention to the group chat, my chest tightening to armor in preparation. Nothing they ever say would be intentionally harmful to me. But that doesn’t mean nothing doesn’t cut me.
Britt: Game day, bitches!
Hallie: Let’s gooooooo!
Shannon: Whoop! Whoop! We’re going to kick the Centaurs’ asses!
Britt: Yeah, their big, fat, incredible-looking asses.
Hallie: You can love them after we win, Britt. Control yourself.
Britt: I can’t help it. Nina Matthews’s ass is ridiculous. You can’t even blame me. Did you see her game-day fit this last week? Deceased.
Hallie: As long as it doesn’t distract you on the ice, I don’t care.
Shannon: Keep it in your pants, B.
Britt: [middle finger emoji]
Hallie: Britt, am I still picking you up this morning?
Britt: Yes, please!
Hallie: On my way. Be ready! I want to stop for coffee first.
Britt: Yes, ma’am.
My thumbs hover over the keys, and I type out a response before deleting it. I repeat that a few more times, hating every option and getting frustrated even more at how slow my left thumb is moving. I’m about to throw my phone across the room.
“Oh my God, it’s not that serious, Shay. Just send a message,” I mutter to myself. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, shuddering breath and exhale, open my eyes, and stare at the keys with determination. Trying my best to be patient with my left hand, I type out my message and proudly hit Send.
Good luck today, guys! I’ll be watching!
Britt: Want us to pick you up?
Hallie: Yeah, we totally can! You can come hang out.
Immediately, my throat tightens, and my body hollows out.
Fuck. I was not ready for that.
