Chapter 76
NOW
Bennett
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It’s not working—nothing is working. I can’t get a goddamn breath into my lungs, only staccato huffs that play at breath but give me no relief.
Just one more time—
It doesn’t help. The thoughts only intensify as I take off all my pads and start to resecure them—
Knee guards—left, then right.
Toe ties—over and under my skate blade until the knot is secured at the edge. Then the same exact pattern on my right foot.
Check it again. One is off and it’s going to move. It’s not secure.
I check again, redoing the back-and-forth under my blade until it’s fastened. Again.
I secure my leg pads—left then right, readjusting the Velcro three times before my hands are willing to let it go—but I’m shaking, fingers numb as I reach for my chest pad. Sliding it over my body feels like tightening the noose around my neck.
Wrong. It’s wrong. Do it again.
It’s just my pads. I’ve done everything right. I’ve done this a thousand times. Relax.
Check it again.
My stomach rolls, sweat dripping from my hair. I want to grab my phone and call my dad. Or Paloma. I want Rhys to walk in and see me and help—
Selfish. Don’t bring them down. Stay focused. Check it again.
Hands shaking, I rip off the half-hanging chest pad and toss it to the floor of the unfamiliar locker room. I try to stand, like I might go for my bag, before my skates slip under my uneven weight as I trip backward, my naked back slamming hard into the unforgiving wooden lines of the cubby.
Breathe. Stop doing this. Breathe—
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
The pieces of myself I hate the most shattered
Discarded across the hard carpet, unforgiving, unreflective
I’m unbound then, all the pieces of myself spilling around me, papers in a book I’ve ripped to shreds. Memories scattered and I still. Can’t—
Think of the water. Her voice is like silk in my ears, and I don’t even think it’s something she said, not a memory I can remember. But it’s something. And I’ll cling to it. Think of the water. Try it.
Nothing helps. Not even the idea of attempting to redo my pads, like securing them around me will make me into some strawman version of myself, enough to prop up in the goal and pretend. Just for a few minutes longer. Just for one more game.
The reminder of the game presses down on my shoulders, just adding weight to my fear and anxiety. I sink into a seated position. I’m back to square fucking one, the place I was seemingly always destined for—drowning quietly in the distance.
Panicked breaths saw out of me; my chest is heaving, skin flushed. It’s a full-blown panic attack—and I’m not silent anymore. There are desperate panting sob-like sounds bellowing from my mouth.
“Holy shit.”
I can barely look up to see who it is, just lift my chin to see Toren Kane stepping back, fully dressed, skates and all. He pulls off his cage, tossing it down as he darts across the space to me, no hesitation, sinking to his knees.
“Fuck, Reiner, breathe,” he begs. “Are you okay if I touch you?”
I can just barely manage a nod. Toren wraps his arms around my shoulders, his jersey to my naked chest, and squeezes tight. There’s a strange relief to it before he pulls back and moves his hands across my arms to squeeze there, down to my hands where I’ve gone numb.
For a moment it’s like pins and needles—but it fades into something better, warmth.
“Can you breathe with me? Like this?” He takes in an overexaggerated breath, and I match him, over and over, slowly, until my erratic too-quick huffs are back to normal. “There ya go. All good.”
Someone comes in, but I don’t look up to see. I can’t. Not yet.
“What—”
“Shut up and come here, Koteskiy,” Toren says, no bite to his voice. He squeezes my hands again. “You’re his best friend. He needs you, not me.”
I can’t speak, throat dry. Toren lets go of my hands and steps back, letting my best friend take his place. Rhys is decked in our navy blue Waterfell classic jerseys, dark brown hair already messy from his helmet, brown eyes wide and terrified as he stares at me.
Rhys kneels in front of me, gaze meeting mine—soothing me with his steadying presence alone. The person I’ve had by my side since I can remember.
“Bennett?” he asks.
“Just . . . a panic . . . attack—”
Rhys’s eyes widen, but he nods. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, almost stumbling over his own skates to head to his bag, rummaging around.
“How’d you know?” I ask Toren, a little breathless still.
Toren shrugs, arms crossed. “I . . . um—My best friend used to have them a lot. Not like panic attacks exactly, but something similar. I’ve—I saw you needed help.” He shrugs again, eyes darting away. “I’m gonna just—”
His thumb darts over his shoulder and he excuses himself. I wonder if he has any clue that we watch him go with different eyes, that this might be the moment he became part of our team completely, especially for Rhys. I can see it in his gaze, flickering over where the defenseman was standing.
“Here,” Rhys says, handing me his phone with corded headphones already plugged in. “Music helps me. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”
The words seem weighted, so I put in a headphone and press play, letting the lull of music take over in my right ear.
“What’s going on?” Coach Harris asks, stepping into the room. Rhys stands almost protectively beside me. “Reiner—are you hurt?”
“No—I’m . . .” I shake my head. I’m not hurt, but I’m hesitant to say I’m fine either. “I just had an episode. I need a second.”
Harris nods, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He checks his watch before looking down the hallway toward the tunnel and gesturing. Toren reappears, Paloma and my dad both behind him.
My dad rushes to me, something like fear on his face, before I wave him off and stand.
“I’m fine. I can play—”
“Like hell you can,” my dad snaps. “We’re going home.”
It’s a strange mix of relief and anger that swirls inside me—desperate to leave the arena, to close my eyes for a moment, to rest. But also desperate not to let my team down. Especially Rhys.
He’s worked his whole life for this. He hauled himself back from the dark without your help. And you would abandon him—
I shake my head to clear it, only to make my headache worse. Enough that I stumble to the side—just a hair.
Arms wrap around my torso: Rhys on my left. Paloma on my right, brown eyes looking up at me from beneath a messy pile of blond curls.
“Hey, P,” I whisper.
She smiles, though it’s minuscule. “Hey, Bennett.” My hand slides up her back and into the ends of her hair, twirling it between my fingers. “You okay?”
I shake my head with a soft, sad smile of my own. Harris and my dad’s voices fade into the background. Rhys is an unmoving pillar of strength at my side, his arm still around me—holding me up, like he has since I was a kid.
Paloma nods and huddles into my body tighter. “That’s okay. You don’t need to be okay right now.” She turns her head to kiss my sweaty chest. “I love you.”
I close my eyes and breathe.