1. Shay
SHAY
I’m never going to play hockey again.
I’m not a complete fucking failure.
The day isn’t full of misery and disappointment.
My arm is never going to recover.
I have no purpose.
Lorea, my therapist, wouldn’t approve of these for my positive sticky notes, but I like them. Although, at this point, she doesn’t really follow up about them anymore. It’s self-managed at this point, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear Lorea’s voice in the back of my mind.
I’m doing great, controlling the things I can control.
I cringe at the positivity but know that Lorea would approve so I don’t crumple and toss this one into the bin. Instead, I stand from my desk, note in hand, and walk over to my sticky-note wall that's plastered in multicolored notes from the past two years.
Some notes have moved on to sticky-note heaven after falling to the ground or being destroyed from minor crashouts on my part. But a majority of them have managed to stay in place, smothering me in optimistic phrases.
Even though I don’t always love playing Ms. Upbeat, it’s become a concrete ritual of my mornings. Before I brush my teeth or check my phone, I roll out of bed, go to my desk, and write a note or two.
It’s a way for me to set the tone for the rest of the day and not let anyone else influence the first few minutes.
My phone chimes from my bed, and I don’t need to check it to know what it’s for—a reminder for my therapy appointment this morning. But then more notifications come through, text after text.
Grabbing my phone from the bed, I check the continuous flow of texts. The pinging starts to make my skin feel too tight on my body and my head cloudy.
Quickly, I flip the switch on the side and mute the ringer, desperately needing the quiet.
Countless notifications await me as I unlock my phone, much like any other morning, but even more so since my accident. Especially since then.
My accident has become the only thing people associate with my name anymore. My social media pages are constantly revolving posts about that day, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
I try to avoid looking at the daunting social media notifications for as long as I can, forcing my eyes to read the thread of texts from the team’s group chat first, promptly titled Britt’s Babes. We changed the name a thousand times, but Britt kept changing it back, and eventually, we gave up.
This group chat first started years ago, long before my last day on the ice. But at least then, I was a much more active participant and not just an outsider, looking in, watching everyone else’s dreams come true.
Even though I would give anything to get back on the ice and chase that dream myself, I’m glad they get to do it. But I don’t always feel as empathetic as I should.
Oftentimes, I’m selfish and mean, pissed off at the world. Pity parties are thrown in my mind, pinata and all. But the bat isn’t releasing candy, rather spiraling thoughts of self-doubt and anguish. Where I beat myself up mentally over and over until I shut down altogether.
Lorea has helped me get better at stopping those shit shows before they happen. But it’s not a flawless system. I still malfunction sometimes.
And that’s perfectly okay, Lorea would probably say if she could hear my thoughts.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I remember how I ended up at this rambling mental place.
I force my attention to the group chat, my chest tightening to armor in preparation. Nothing they ever say would be intentionally harmful to me. But that doesn’t mean nothing doesn’t cut me.
Britt: Game day, bitches!
Hallie: Let’s gooooooo!
Shannon: Whoop! Whoop! We’re going to kick the Centaurs’ asses!
Britt: Yeah, their big, fat, incredible-looking asses.
Hallie: You can love them after we win, Britt. Control yourself.
Britt: I can’t help it. Nina Matthews’s ass is ridiculous. You can’t even blame me. Did you see her game-day fit this last week? Deceased.
Hallie: As long as it doesn’t distract you on the ice, I don’t care.
Shannon: Keep it in your pants, B.
Britt: [middle finger emoji]
Hallie: Britt, am I still picking you up this morning?
Britt: Yes, please!
Hallie: On my way. Be ready! I want to stop for coffee first.
Britt: Yes, ma’am.
My thumbs hover over the keys, and I type out a response before deleting it. I repeat that a few more times, hating every option and getting frustrated even more at how slow my left thumb is moving. I’m about to throw my phone across the room.
“Oh my God, it’s not that serious, Shay. Just send a message,” I mutter to myself. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, shuddering breath and exhale, open my eyes, and stare at the keys with determination. Trying my best to be patient with my left hand, I type out my message and proudly hit Send.
Good luck today, guys! I’ll be watching!
Britt: Want us to pick you up?
Hallie: Yeah, we totally can! You can come hang out.
Immediately, my throat tightens, and my body hollows out.
Fuck. I was not ready for that.
I can hear the seconds ticking by in my ears, my heart racing to double the pace. They were supposed to say thank you and move on. I didn’t prepare for a follow-up offer to join.
My stomach drops through the floor, and my palms heat up, perspiration forming on my skin against the phone. I know they want me to attend a game, but I just can’t.
At first, I put it off because I wanted to heal, but here I am, two years later, still avoiding the arena like a plague. I’ve gone this long, so why stop now? If anything, the anxiety to return has only grown with time.
Now, it seems like an impossible task, one I’m not sure I’m even capable of doing anymore.
Another text comes through.
Dammit, I took too long, thinking about my response, and they got impatient.
Embarrassment snakes around my throat like a noose.
Hallie: No stress, babe! Next time! Or maybe we can all grab lunch soon. Group date.
Britt: Ooh, yes, please! At your place so we can cuddle with Kyle.
Hallie: Don’t be rude and needy.
Britt: You know I’m a needy girl.
Hallie: Trust me, as your friend, I know!
Yeah maybe. Good luck guys! <3
My heart swells, warming me to the core. God, I love these girls so much.
They’re truly my best friends in the entire world, and I’ve been the absolute worst friend to them. They deserve better because I don’t even know who I am right now. I’ve been struggling to figure that out for the last two years.
Who the hell is Shay Rooney without hockey?
A great goddamn question.
I swipe out of the texts altogether, intent on avoiding the group chat for the rest of the day.
My thumb hovers over the app I have no busy diving into—Instagram. It’s the one I try avoiding as much as possible.
My home page is flooded with hockey of all kinds, but worse than that are the linked articles about me, even two years after the fact, and it’s exhausting.
I know what happened was a fluke, once-in-a-lifetime accident, and it’s horrible.
People are fascinated learning about what happened, but I don’t need that reminder—my body is enough.
I’m less than a second from giving in to my own self-deprecating curiosity when an email notification comes through. It’s from Lorea, my therapist.
Good morning. Here is our zoom link for today’s session. See you shortly.
She’ll be proud that I didn’t follow through on an Instagram dive off the deep end this morning.
Glancing at the time in the top-right corner, I sigh, my leisurely morning time quickly running out. I meet with Lorea in thirty minutes, and I still want to shower and braid my hair so it’s out of the way.
Kyle groans in bed next to me, stretching his legs out as far as he can, and my heart skips a beat at his cuteness. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at me, his round brown eyes immediately finding my blue ones.
“Good morning, baby,” I coo, reaching over and petting his head. “You’re such a good boy.”
His tail starts to wag under his little blanket, and my heart nearly melts out of my chest.
I can’t believe that I’ve only had Kyle for a few months. I swear he came into my life right before I needed him most.
Britt wanted to go volunteer at one of the local shelters, and I decided to tag along with her. It was great. We took dogs for walks, helped clean out cages, and did anything they needed.
You could say we went above and beyond with our care because I left with a new dog and Britt left with three staff members’ numbers.
I slide out of bed, and Kyle follows behind me, his paws padding on the hardwood floor.
Quickly, I let Kyle outside to go potty while I grab a room-temp Alani—the only way I drink them—and crack it open, the fizzing sound like music to my tired ears.
After Kyle is done investigating every corner of the yard, he comes back inside and occupies himself with a bone while I hop in the shower, desperate to wash away the anxiety already building in my chest.
But that’s not abnormal compared to any other day. If anything, my anxiety is the biggest constant in my life. Un-fucking-fortunately.
The warm water encases me like a hug, instantly reminding me that I haven’t gotten a good mom hug in a little while.
I need to pay my parents and my shit-head little brother a visit.
But sometimes, the simplest task feels overwhelming to complete, never mind driving the hour out of the city to their house.
The last ten times we’ve gotten together, they’ve come here. But I need to stop isolating myself from the world … eventually.
Or never.
After soaking my hair, I wring the water out and look over at the shampoo bottle staring into my soul. Everything that used to be so easy and thoughtless requires so much goddamn effort; it’s exhausting.
Every aspect of my life changed after that accident. In the blink of an eye. All because of a skate blade that had somehow slipped just right between my mask and my shoulder padding.