Chapter 5 The Weight Room
THE WEIGHT ROOM
The shrink’s office is the color of oat milk, which is some kind of sick joke.
The carpet, the chair, the tasteful print of a heron lifting off a foggy pond, all of it beige.
Even the coffee they offer, Keurig crap with creamer pre-mixed, is one shade away from the walls.
It’s supposed to make you feel safe, Dr. Sharma said, when I joked about the lack of windows the first week. “People talk better without distractions.”
As if I’d open a vein for her just because there’s nothing else to look at.
She’s waiting for me now, not in her usual upright posture, but with her legs tucked up on the chair and a coffee balanced on her knee. “You’re two minutes early,” she says, like it’s a compliment.
I think it’s a trap.
I take the chair with the fewest stains and sit at the very edge, so I can bolt if this gets too real.
Dr. Sharma does her little pause, waiting for me to “initiate the conversation,” as if talking about myself is the prize for surviving a mass shooting. “How are you doing, Asher?”
I fake a grin. “Well, I’ve discovered that time travel is real, because every night around three AM I get sucked back to the moment Cap’s helmet exploded like a microwaved egg. But on the plus side, I can’t taste hospital Jell-O anymore, so win-win.”
She nods, not even a flinch. “Still having the nightmares?”
“Not really nightmares,” I say. “More like replays. I keep trying to change the channel, but it’s the only thing on.” It comes out funnier in my head.
She writes something on her pad. Probably “patient uses humor as avoidance mechanism.” Underline, underline. Next week’s copay will go toward unpacking that shit.
“You mentioned the headaches last time. Any better?”
“Eh. Advil does nothing. I think my brain just likes to throb, gives it purpose.”
More notes. “Have you told your trainer?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “They’re thrilled. Said it’s my one elite stat.”
She knows I’m dodging. It’s a game, now, me seeing how many times I can joke before she calls me on it.
Today’s number is six.
“Let’s talk about the funeral,” she says, flipping pages. “You were there, but you said you felt like an outsider.”
“I mean, I’m always the extra.” I gesture at my own face, which still has a faint yellow bruise under the eye, healing up real nice, thanks for asking. “Nobody looks at the sub and says, ‘yeah, that’s the future of the franchise.’”
“You’re not just talking about hockey,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Nope.” I pick at a thread on my jeans. “I wasn’t really close with Cap. I didn’t go out with the guys, didn’t do the rookie hazing, never even got invited to the poker games. At the wake, people kept asking me who I was. Even the bartender looked at me like I’d crashed a wedding.”
“Why do you think that is?” She cocks her head. “Do you keep people at a distance?”
“I mean, have you met people? If I wanted to be close to someone, I’d get a dog.”
I expect her to laugh, but she just watches me. “You don’t strike me as someone who wants to be alone, Asher.”
I look at her, then at the wall, then at my hands, which have started shaking a little.
“I used to think I was a ghost, you know? Like, I could walk through the world and nobody noticed. But after last week, every time I go to Safeway, I get recognized. Guy at the deli counter called me ‘survivor.’ Is that an upgrade or just sadder?”
“Sounds like neither makes you happy.”
“Who said I was looking for happy?” I say, and mean it. “I just want it to stop feeling like… like I’m two seconds away from puking or passing out, or both.”
She nods, lets the silence get real thick. I hate it. I’d almost prefer a full-tilt emotional probe. Instead, she asks, “Have you talked to your family?”
I try to roll my eyes, but it comes off more like a wince.
“My mom calls every morning, my dad every night. My sister’s been sending TikToks of dogs that survived house fires, which I think is a joke?
We’re Jews, so we process everything with food and guilt.
I think Maya’s on a new mission to make me laugh at tragedy. ”
Dr. Sharma smiles for the first time. “That sounds like love to me.”
“Yeah.” I stare at the heron print, which is technically a crane, but whatever. “But it’s not the same as..”
I stop myself, but it’s too late. She pounces. “Not the same as what?”
I chew the inside of my cheek until it almost bleeds. “Never mind. It’s dumb.”
“I doubt that,” she says, gentle, but not letting go.
I shake my head. “It’s just… There’s this guy. On the team. Not like that” I blurt, then want to rewind time, because now I have to explain the ‘not like that.’
She waits.
I sigh. “It’s Darius. Webb. The goalie. We were together, I mean, we were running partners during the” I wave at the windowless room, “event.”
I can’t say the word shooting, not today. “We haven’t really talked since. At the wake, he just sat with the rest of the starters and never looked my way.”
“Do you want him to?”
The question wallops me. I look at my hands. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah? I keep thinking if someone else saw what I did, maybe it’s not just in my head. But he’s probably just trying to move on, like everyone else.”
Dr. Sharma’s voice is softer now. “Do you think reaching out would help?”
I consider it, then shake my head. “No. I’d just be bugging him. I’m fine, really. It’s just… hard to go from being invisible to being the guy everyone expects to have a take on tragedy.”
More silence. I want to say, “That’s time,” and bolt, but she leans in.
“Last thing. If Darius reached out to you, would you respond?”
This time, I don’t have a joke ready. “In a second,” I say, and it’s honest.
Dr. Sharma closes her notebook. “Maybe think about reaching out anyway. Even if you think you’re not supposed to. Sometimes, connection is the only thing that keeps us upright.”
I nod, more to make her stop than because I believe it.
But for a second, I think about what it would be like to sit with Darius, both of us still alive, breathing, not saying anything.
I almost smile.
She wishes me well, tells me to try “mindful breathing,” which is hilarious, and I leave the beige room with the taste of oat milk in my mouth.
———
The league is still pretending we’ll finish the season, but nobody’s buying it.
The arena is taped off, the ice warped by too many bleach rinses, the air thick with police tape and the scent of tragedy.
Our new practice spot is a rink in Bellevue that smells like burnt popcorn and urinal pucks, and our team meetings happen in a rec room with folding chairs and a digital clock stuck at 4:20.
Coach Vasquez doesn’t yell anymore. She just reads from the playbook in a voice that sounds like she’s already on vacation.
Our first week back, two guys quit. One just never showed up again, the other sent a mass email about “re-evaluating priorities.” Nobody can blame them.
I’m still here. I show up early, tape my stick the old way, work my lines, do everything exactly as I did before.
I guess some part of me thinks if I keep skating, maybe the world will go back to how it was.
Instead, it just gets weirder.
O'Doul pulls me aside after Tuesday's practice, puts a hand on my shoulder. "You good, Rosen? You've been skating like a man possessed." I shrug. "Just trying to stay useful."
He nods, like that's enough. It has to be.
I'm still the sub, still the warm body they slot in when someone else can't go. That hasn't changed. Nothing has.
I walk home in my street clothes, thinking I should feel something. Pride, maybe? Relief?
But all I feel is the itch, that old wound of knowing every achievement is just a temporary reprieve.
I get home, kick off my shoes, and stare at my phone. Nothing from Darius. Not even a meme in the team group chat.
I open Tinder, close it. Open Grindr, close it faster. What’s the point?
I pace my kitchen, eat a sleeve of saltines, and think about texting Darius, but I don’t.
Instead, I pull up the schedule for tomorrow’s therapy, see he’s slotted for the hour after mine.
I debate faking sick, but show up anyway.
———
At the shrink’s office, there’s a new receptionist, a guy who looks like he got lost on his way to a vape shop, and he asks me to fill out the same trauma intake as last week.
“Have you experienced any of the following in the last 24 hours?” I circle everything, because it’s easier than picking one.
Dr. Sharma waves me in.
We do the dance again, talk about the dreams, the headaches, the weirdness of skating in a borrowed rink with half the roster gone.
“Have you reached out to your teammate?” she asks, as if it’s a real option.
“Not yet. I figure if he wants to talk, he’ll talk.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s disappointed. I almost want to say, “I’ll do it, I’ll text him,” but then what? What do you say to someone whose entire life is compartmentalized into not feeling?
After the session, I linger by the reception, pretending to read a flyer about breathing techniques, when I see him.
Darius. He’s taller than I remember, somehow, or maybe I’ve just been shrinking.
He wears the same gray hoodie and black track pants he always does, but his face is different: less armor, more raw.
He glances at me, the barest flicker, then looks away. I want to say, “Hey,” but the receptionist is watching, so I just nod.
He nods back.
And that’s it.
I wait outside for a while, standing in the gray drizzle, but when the hour’s up, Darius slips out the side door and I miss my window.
I walk home in the rain, shoes soaked, wondering if it’s possible to be less visible after surviving a mass shooting than before.
The answer, apparently, is yes.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time I felt anything that wasn't dread or static.
The apartment hums. The city hums. My brain hums the same three-second loop of gunfire and silence.
By five AM, I give up on sleep. I need to move, need to burn the poison out of my muscles before it eats through to the bone.