Chapter 7 #2
But if yesterday was any indication, I’m not doing as well as I try to pretend. And that’s the rub. On some level, I know that I’m a complete fucking mess. But delusion is a funny thing like that.
I’m glad that I don’t have to sit with my thoughts any longer when Zane walks out of the office first and disappears out of the sports medicine room.
Chase follows quickly after, the iPad he often carries pressed against his side. He walks with purpose, his feet gliding over the carpeted floor so smoothly that it looks like he’s floating. “Sorry about that.”
I hold my hands up. “You’d have caught up to me pretty quickly anyway.”
It’s my attempt at a joke, and I look at my brace to sell it.
Chase doesn’t laugh. He stares at me intently.
And again, I’m struck with that vulnerable feeling, like he can see right through me, into the hollowness that’s carved a place inside my chest. “So, I’m trying to figure out how to deal with you,” he says without preamble.
“Deal with me? I’m pretty sure we have a six phase plan that you created for that exact reason.” I don’t know if I meant for the words to be casual or sarcastic, but they come out as a strange mix between the two that land awkwardly in the large room.
We’re the only two people in the sports medicine room, which feels sprawling when empty and claustrophobic when it seems like every guy on the team is getting something taped ahead of a practice or game.
Once we’re into the season, it’ll be hard to get time in here without at least one or two or a dozen other people jockeying for attention. Flair-ups from old pulls or tears or bruises. New injuries once we actually start playing games.
But today it feels… hot. I roll my shoulders uncomfortably. My shirt is sticking to my back against the raised padding of the table.
There’s a beat of silence that hangs between us, and I’m dreading whatever he’s about to say.
“I’ve never worked with an athlete so resistant to their recovery, especially when they have a great prognosis for a full return to sport,” he says matter-of-factly. It cuts me to the quick.
I frown, not meeting his eyes. For all the shit that I’ve been giving Chase, I don’t like disappointing people.
And I don’t like being a difficult asshole who makes it harder for other people to do their jobs.
Because, at the end of the day, this is Chase’s job.
To get me back into playing shape and help me through my recovery–the physical part at least.
I’m trying to figure out what to say–maybe even how to apologize–when Chase fills the silence again. “We need to talk about yesterday.”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat at the same time I say, “What about it?” A new wave of heat rolls through me, and I wish desperately that I actually could outrun Chase in a foot race right now.
“How long have you been having panic attacks?”
“That was the first one.” I’m glad I don’t have to lie, but I’m not sure that makes it any better. Me possibly melting down at any moment isn’t great, even if yesterday was the first time.
He studies me, and for a second, I think that he’s going to start taking notes on the iPad. Except that he doesn’t. Instead, he places it on the roller tray next to him. “First and foremost, they happen, and they’re nothing to be ashamed about.”
“I’m not ashamed,” I say, even as I feel the lie on my lips. But more than the shame is the fear, that now there’s this door inside of me that’s opened up, and I don’t fully know how to close it.
Last night, I laid with an undercurrent of buzzy anxiousness in my chest until I was finally too exhausted to keep my eyes open. I didn’t think that the fits and starts of sleep that I’d been managing could get less productive, but I was wrong.
“Well, whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. But the important thing is that you don’t do what you did yesterday. Aggravating your injury isn’t going to help anything. We need to teach you to work through a panic attack if it happens again so that you don’t set your rehab back.”
He’s making a ton of sense, even if he’s wildly overestimating the ease of what he’s asking. “Yesterday won’t happen again,” I say, even if it’s a promise I don’t know that I can keep. All I’d been doing was walking through the quad.
“Asher, do you want to be here?” Chase’s eyes track across my face, gauging how his words land.
I’m not prepared for the question. I thought that we were going to keep doing an inane back-and-forth where I pretend that I’m in control of something that I definitely haven’t even scratched the surface yet on handling.
Where I profess that sheer force of will can get me where I need to go when that hasn’t been the case yet.
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Tell me where you want to be, exactly, and why you want to be there.” There’s a challenge in his voice.
“Explain to me why I shouldn’t walk into Coach Donovan’s office right now and tell him that you were reckless yesterday, regardless of the reason.
That I don’t think that the school should be taking these kinds of chances with players who are clearly not in the right headspace to fully participate in their own recoveries. ”
“Your job is to help me,” I say, and I’m shocked at how much of a plea it sounds like. I feel like I’ve lost everything. I can’t lose this, too.
“That would be helping you.” He starts to unbuckle my brace, taking care to hold my weight while he maneuvers the apparatus off of my thigh. “Now, tell me why you want to be here.”
“I want to get better,” I say.
“What does that mean to you?” he challenges.
At the same time, he’s gingerly pressing his fingers along my thigh, looking for tender spots.
He finds one, and I wince. “Explain it to me, Asher. Because we can’t keep doing this for months.
I cannot be responsible for your care if I don’t trust that you’re invested in it. ”
His voice is so resolute. I’m overwhelmed at how I feel it pulling uncomfortable truths out of me, even as I try to keep them buried. “I can’t be at home. Back in Michigan, I mean.”
“Doesn’t mean you should be here,” he says while he extends my leg so that it can rest on the mat. His words, said differently, could sound cruel. But they’re imbued with so much kindness that I don’t know what to do with them.
When I came back to school, I thought that I could distract myself by focusing on my recovery. That I could put all my hurt and anger and confusion in a box that I tucked away. I thought…
“Nothing makes sense,” I admit hopelessly.
I don’t know whether I’m talking about hockey or my injury or my sister or the uncomfortable waves of emotion that threaten to overtake me every second of the day. I’m not used to feeling so adrift.
“Then how are we going to make it make sense?” he coaxes, guiding me toward a prickle of light in the darkness of my mind.
His hand rests gently on my knee. He’s not applying pressure.
He’s just… keeping me tethered to the moment.
“What are we going to do about it? Because we can’t keep doing this.
It’s not going to work. I won’t put my professional reputation and your health on the line. ”
My heart is beating faster, as I grapple with the magnitude of what comes next. Or, at the very least, what I need to accept comes next for me to start making any type of real progress.
It’s like he can feel my pulse beating erratically, and I watch as his hand shifts from my knee. He places it over my chest, where my heart is still thrumming with an intensity that makes me wonder if another panic attack is on the horizon.
“Breathe,” he presses with his words, as his palm flattens against my t-shirt. “Focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.” He leads by example, inhaling through his nose, holding for a few seconds, and then exhaling through his mouth.
It’s just like yesterday, and I follow his lead.
For the first time in months, I don’t feel so alone.
And for all that I tell myself, I don’t want to be alone.
This is probably the most intimate moment that I’ve shared with another person, as we stay like this, both of us breathing steadily, our bodies connected.
It feels like he’s taking my rapid, haphazard pulse and cycling it through his own body like some kind of anxiety dialysis, helping to return it to me distilled into a steady and consistent thrum.
“I can see your iPad,” I say, remembering the next steps to calm myself. I take another deep breath. “And a medicine ball.”
“Good.” He keeps his hand on my chest, warm and insistent. I don’t want him to let go.
And I realize that unless I change my attitude, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.