2. Savannah #2
Did you know that mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell?
Dad:
Revolutionary.
Me:
Dad, can I ask you something?
Dad:
Shoot.
Me:
When you said Colin had a rough practice... how rough?
There's a pause before he responds.
Dad:
Why do you ask?
Me:
Just curious. You said he was a good player when you coached him.
Dad:
He IS a good player. But college hockey is a big adjustment. Bigger, stronger, faster kids. Takes time to adapt.
Me:
Is he hurt?
Dad:
Not that I know of. Why?
I think about the way Colin was moving his shoulder in class.
Me:
No reason. Just wondering.
Dad:
You know, if you're really curious, you could always reach out. I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing from someone who knows the game.
Me:
I don't know him that well.
Dad:
You know him better than most people at that school. You watched him play when you were kids.
Me:
From the stands. Doing homework.
Dad:
You were still there. You saw how hard he worked, how much he cared about getting better. That hasn't changed.
I stare at my phone, considering this. Maybe Dad has a point. Maybe I do know Colin better than I think, even if he doesn't remember me well.
Dad:
Besides, what's the worst that could happen? He says no to whatever you're offering to help with?
Me:
I'm not offering to help with anything.
Dad:
Why not? You know more about sports medicine than half the trainers I've worked with.
Me:
Dad...
Dad:
I'm just saying. You've got skills. And he's a good kid who might need a friend.
A friend. Right. Like it's that simple.
But as I'm walking back to my dorm, I can't stop thinking about what Dad said. About how Colin might need a friend, about how I have skills that could actually be useful.
Jess is in our room when I get back, sprawled across her bed with her laptop open.
"Please tell me you've been thinking about the hockey thing," she says without looking up.
"I've been thinking."
"And?"
I sit down at my desk and pull out the application she printed for me earlier. It's straightforward—basic information, relevant experience, why you want the position.
Under "relevant experience," I could put down years of watching practices, helping Dad with equipment, learning about injury prevention and recovery. Under "why you want the position," I could write about my pre-PT track and my genuine interest in sports medicine.
Or I could admit that I want to help a kid I used to know who might be struggling more than anyone realizes.
"The application isn't that hard," Jess says, clearly reading my hesitation. "What's really stopping you?"
"It's complicated."
"How complicated can it be? You fill out a form, they interview you, you get to hang around attractive hockey players while building your resume. This seems like a win-win-win situation."
She makes it sound so simple. And maybe it is that simple. Maybe I'm overthinking this.
"What if they don't want me?" I ask.
"What if they do?"
"What if I'm terrible at it?"
"What if you're great at it?"
I look at the application again. The deadline is Friday. It's Wednesday now.
"If I do this," I say slowly, "you have to promise not to make a big deal about it."
Jess sits up so fast she nearly falls off her bed. "You're going to do it?"
"I'm going to think about it."
"That's more than thinking. That's serious consideration."
"It's really not."
"It's totally serious consideration. I can tell by your face."
"What about my face?"
"You have your 'I'm about to do something that terrifies me but I'm going to do it anyway' face."
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am about to do something that terrifies me.
But as I'm lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I keep thinking about Colin rolling his shoulder in Biology class. About Dad saying he had a rough practice. About the frown on his face when he was reading his texts.
Maybe he could use a friend who understands hockey. Someone who gets what it's like to have your whole identity wrapped up in a sport that can be taken away in an instant.
Maybe I could be that friend.
Or maybe I'm just a girl who's been invisible for so long that she's forgotten how to be seen.
I guess there's only one way to find out.
I reach for my laptop and open the application. At the top of the page, it asks for my name and contact information.
I take a deep breath and start typing.
Name: Savannah McPherson
Year: Freshman
Major: Biology (Pre-Physical Therapy)
Relevant Experience:
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain years of watching practices without sounding like a stalker? How do I describe growing up around hockey without admitting that I was basically furniture in the rink?
Grew up around hockey through father's coaching. Familiar with equipment, basic injury prevention, and team dynamics. Currently studying sports medicine and injury rehabilitation.
It's not exactly comprehensive, but it's honest.
Why are you interested in this position?
This one's easier.
I'm passionate about sports medicine and want to gain hands-on experience working with athletes. I believe that understanding both the physical and mental aspects of performance is crucial for effective treatment and injury prevention.
Also honest, if not complete.
I save the document and close my laptop. I'll finish it tomorrow and submit it before I can change my mind.
Jess is already asleep, snoring softly in her bed across the room. I lie there in the dark, wondering what I'm getting myself into.
Colin Grant probably doesn't remember me very well. Probably never will, even if I do somehow get this position. And that's fine. It has to be fine.
But maybe, just maybe, I can help him figure out whatever's going wrong with his hockey. Not because I expect anything in return, but because I remember what it felt like to watch someone who loved the game as much as he did.
And because sometimes, invisible girls are the ones who see everything.