Chapter 5
ASHER REYNOLDS
Coop insisted that we get lunch together after practice, ahead of heading to our first classes. And by practice, I mean that he practiced and I rode the bench like an idiot. At least on play review days, where we’re all sitting in the massive, tiered video room, it’s less obvious that I’m useless.
But, the alternative on ice days would be that I’m with Chase for physical therapy, which I don’t love either. For someone who used to love introspection, I’ve been avoiding it as much as possible these days.
I follow Coop through the athletic dining hall before falling in line behind him.
He picks up a tray and stares hungrily at the half-a-dozen stations set up. “God, I’ve missed unlimited access to food.”
Coop is so simple sometimes, and I love him for it. “I appreciate your appreciation of the simple things.”
“How’s the new apartment?” he asks, wielding a pair of tongs to pick up three chicken breasts at the same time.
I scoop a large spoon of brown rice into my bowl before adding my own chicken breast. “Just what the doctor ordered.” There’s no need to mention that it’s lonely, devoid of any personality, and I mostly don’t even turn on the lights at home.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “I’m sure.” Then, he turns his attention back to the next station we’re moving toward. Internally, I guessed that he’d get two slices of pizza, and I’m annoyed that I’m wrong when he grabs three. He takes a bite of one of them before asking, “How’s PT going?”
I honestly can’t tell if Coop is genuinely oblivious to the fact that all I want to do is disappear into the darkness or if he knows and he’s not letting me go without a fight. “Just working the steps,” I say, like it’s some sort of addiction program.
After we stop by two more stations, where Coop picks up half of a turkey and avocado sandwich and a protein shake, we walk over to one of the long tables and sit down.
He houses one of his pieces of pizza dangerously fast. “Crazy that Wyatt Chase is your physical therapist.”
I look toward him, focusing on a smear of sauce at the edge of his lip. “Yeah. Pretty crazy.”
He’s not letting it go. “I mean, dude was a legend at Michigan. You must have watched him play, right?”
Cutting up my chicken breast only buys me a few seconds. It feels weird to talk about Chase. Everything that Coop has said is factually true, and I’m the one making it a bigger deal than it actually is. “Yeah, I’ve seen him play.”
“And his year in Seattle? Damn. Some of those rookie records still stand. You’re getting treated by a fucking legend, man,” Coop says reverently.
“I wouldn’t exactly call him a legend. He only played pro for one season.”
Coop considers my words as he goes to work on his sandwich.
He did enough on the ice this morning to necessitate the thousands of calories that he’s inhaling at a break-neck pace.
“Well, he did a lot with the short time he had as a pro, that’s for damn sure.
And it’s amazing how he’s pivoted into physical therapy.
It’s really cool that he didn’t let his injury define him. ”
For the first time, I’m annoyed at Coop’s positivity. He doesn’t know that Wyatt Chase looks at me like he knows how broken I am. Or that losing a hockey career is totally different than losing a sister. And even if I shouldn’t compare the traumas, I can’t help it.
What bugs me is that I think, on some level, Chase thinks that he can help me through how I’m feeling. That to him, we’re more similar than we are different. But he can’t.
“We’re next door neighbors,” I admit. I haven’t stopped thinking about this morning when I unexpectedly saw him with his daughter. Until that moment, I’d only met Wyatt Chase, the focused–if not a little pushy–physical therapist and former professional hockey player.
“No shit?” Coop asks before moving onto his chicken.
“At least him and his daughter. I don’t know if he has a wife or girlfriend or anything,” I tack on, not sure why. For not wanting to think or talk about Chase, I’m sure doing a lot of both.
“Stars, they’re just like us,” he says with a loud laugh.
I lift my brow and place my cutlery down on my empty plate. “I wouldn’t say he’s a star. More like he used to be famous in certain circles.”
Coop gives me a much more critical look than he usually levels. “Did he push you too hard at PT or something? You don’t usually have a bad word to say about people.”
“I didn’t say a bad word about him,” I defend. “Everything that I just said is factually true.”
“Look,” Coop says seriously, “I know this year isn’t going how you expected. And I definitely know that you’re going through some shit that I can’t even imagine. But I also know that pushing us away right now is not the right move.”
I don’t know what he means by ‘us.’ Wyatt Chase was not put on this earth to be my guide into acceptance. “Chase is my PT, and I’m showing up for all my sessions…”
Coop waves me off. “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about me and Dane and West. The other guys, too. You’ve barely said a word to us since you’ve been back. You’re here, but you’re not here.”
Heat floods my body. Have they all been talking about me? How badly that they feel for me because of my injury and my dead sister? I’m sure they do feel sympathy for me, even if it’s secretly mixed with relief that it isn’t happening to them.
I ball up my napkin. “I need to get to class.”
Coop nods, even though he knows that he’s getting the brush off. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
Appreciating philosophy is a lot easier in the abstract. I had two classes today, a sociology elective and a required upper-level philosophy class focused on ‘the self.’ I would pay any amount of money to get out of the latter, but it’s a graduation requirement.
My leg hurts. My head hurts. My heart hurts.
I feel both angry and guilty. I haven’t been able to shake my conversation with Coop at lunch, and it’s just layered on top of my intrusive thoughts about Chase and his relentless need to support me through my recovery.
I decided to take a slow walk back to my SUV. The campus is a flurry of activity in the early afternoon. From my last class, I walk across the main quad where students are lounging on the manicured grass.
It’s still warm out this early in September, and I take in a deep breath, trying to keep my gait steady.
For the last three years, this campus has been my home.
Coming to Radford U was a dream for a lot of reasons.
Sure, I’d always hoped growing up that I’d play at Michigan, but Coach Donovan’s program here was what I needed.
Plus, he scouted me from my two years in junior leagues and made me feel like Radford was the right choice.
And I like the people in New England. They aren’t as outwardly nice or as helpful as they are back in Michigan, but they still show up when someone needs it.
Occasionally, in the springtime–after the season was over–I’d sit on this very quad with some of the team or play frisbee if West brought one along. He’s always the guy who wants to get a game going.
Now? I look at all of the full, lush trees rustling in the wind, and I feel the sun beating down against my face and I just feel… nothing.
No sense of awe. No feeling of possibility. No curiosity about the world and my place in it.
A group of students sprawled out on a blanket stare at me for a couple of seconds, and I know that they recognize me.
I’m not the golden boy that Kellan O’Reilly was last year before he graduated and went pro, but hockey is the biggest sport by a wide margin at Radford, and that doesn’t happen without the buy-in of the student body.
I shrug and give them a small wave, which makes a few of the girls blush and start giggling.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to get back to my SUV.
They look like freshmen, awestruck by the fact that they’re living away from home and making their own decisions, dropped into a world where the rules are what they make them instead of being imposed by their parents.
A knot forms in my throat that I try to swallow. Olivia should have been one of those people. Testing boundaries and having new experiences. She should be in her first year of college right now.
It’s all just so fucking unfair.
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. My chest is so tight, and I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. I need to get to my car. Away from here. Away from people.
I start walking faster. The delicately connected muscle in my left thigh screams, but I don’t acknowledge it.
Instead, I move between two of the buildings anchoring the quad and then onto a sidewalk that winds through campus.
Like an idiot, I parked in the lot closest to the training facility and arena, and I’m still minutes away from my destination.
Within thirty seconds, it’s hard for me to see from the tunnel vision. I blink, but it only makes me grow more frantic.
On some abstract level, I know that I’m having a panic attack. But that doesn’t matter when I feel like a scared, wild animal. I’m nothing but my base instincts. I can’t think. I can’t reason. I can’t rationalize my way out of this.
I just need to get to my car, I tell myself. Just get there and it will all be okay.
Sweat runs down my back as I keep my quick pace, the rink coming into sight. I’m hot. Why is it so hot? I pull at the neck of my t-shirt, but it doesn’t help.
What happens next? Do I simply combust from all the molecules in my body grinding together and making me feel like the only thing that can give me some relief is crawling out of my skin?
My leg is begging for me to slow down, but I barely register the pain radiating up my thigh.
Don’t stop moving.
Don’t stop moving.
Don’t stop moving.
It’s the mantra that I’ve repeated every single day since the accident.
But I can’t–
“Asher. Hey. Are you okay?”