Chapter 8 #2
The panic attack today happened before my first practice as assistant coach.
The last one happened when I felt overwhelmed in the pizzeria by all the people asking for photos, their phones in my face, their voices overlapping until they became white noise.
And when they started, back in that sterile hospital room. ..
“They would happen in the hospital after my family visited me.”
Understanding washes over her face like sunrise. “Oh.”
She knows what my family is like, how nothing I ever do is good enough for them. How my brothers’ football careers always overshadowed my hockey. How my parents’ visits were performances of concern that turned into lectures about what I should have done differently.
“I didn’t see the pattern to them, but yeah. You’re right.” I shake my head and stare at the treatment table across from me, its white paper pristine, waiting for the next injured athlete. Above it, there’s a poster showing proper taping technique for various joints. “It makes sense now.”
“I’ve gotten a few panic attacks before appointments. I even had one during an appointment once.” She pulls at a loose thread on her fleece, not meeting my eyes. “That was embarrassing.”
“You did?” I turn back to her, searching her face. “When was that?”
“Back in New York. It’s been years, though. I’ve figured out how to stop them in their tracks before they get going.”
“Back in New York,” I slowly say, the words heavy as stones in my mouth. “When we were together?”
“Mm hmm.” She nods, matter of fact, like she’s mentioning the weather.
But my heart doesn’t feel so nonchalant about it. It aches like hell, a crushing weight in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d tell me I could outthink panic attacks, that I was just giving in to my feelings.
” Her voice stays level, but I can hear years of hurt underneath.
“That’s what you always told me about fatigue flares.
‘Mind over matter, Devin.’ ‘You just need to push through.’ Eventually, I learned that I just shouldn’t tell you when I was doing poorly.
Not unless it was so bad that I had to.”
She’s so direct, so unabashed with the information, laying out the facts of our failed relationship like evidence in a case. I’ve never heard her talk about her health like this—confident, unapologetic, owning her experience. I always figured her silence meant she agreed with my assessment.
I know that I mishandled her condition, but I had no clue that I scared her into silence.
That my dismissiveness, my impatience, my constant suggestions that she could overcome her symptoms if she just tried harder had taught her to hide her struggles from me.
Hearing her say these things fills me up with anger at myself, hot and bitter.
I had a good thing going with her, the best thing, and I pushed her away.
Broke up with her because I thought she didn’t care enough about my career, about our future.
Now I see that my ending our relationship was a reflex, a result of my not really liking myself. But because it was too hard to admit how much I hated myself—the pressure, the constant performance, the feeling that I was never enough—I took my frustrations out on her. Which she never deserved.
From somewhere in the complex, a door slams and teenage voices echo down the hallway, getting closer.
Through the small window in the PT room door, I can see players starting to walk by, their gear bags slung over shoulders, some of them already wearing their practice jerseys.
The familiar pre-practice energy radiates from them—that mix of excitement and nerves that used to fuel my entire existence.
I gaze back at Devin, so many things resting on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell her thank you for being here, for sitting with me through this humiliating moment. That I’m sorry for the way I treated her. I was an asshole and should have done better.
I want to tell her that I’m happy we ended up here, in the same area, in the same room, even if this reconnection never goes further beyond this moment. She means something to me. She always will.
“Devin,” my voice cracks like I’m sixteen again.
Her brown eyes search mine, and for a moment I see a flash of the way she used to look at me, before I ruined everything. “Yeah?” She whispers.
“I...” I lose my nerve. The words pile up behind my teeth, but I can’t let them out. Not now, not like this, not when I’m still shaking from a panic attack. “What are you doing here?”
She cocks her head, and I see the moment she decides to let me off the hook.
“I’m working. I’m supervising the physical therapy interns.
They’ll be here in about an hour to help with pre-season assessments, so I came early to set up the stations.
” She gestures toward the bin she brought in.
“Making sure we have all the equipment ready for baseline flexibility and strength testing.”
I laugh out loud, the sound bouncing off the walls. So much for Niall’s insistence that I’ll never run into her. Pine Island is barely three miles long, and we’re both working at the same high school.
“What’s so funny?”
I shake my head but can’t stop smiling. “It’s just... crazy, isn’t it? How life brought us back together?”
She drops her gaze so that I can’t read her eyes, those expressive eyes that used to tell me everything. “Yeah.”
There’s a stiffness there, the warmth that had been creeping in between us like spring thaw now gone, frozen over again.
Voices from the ice rink permeate the closed door—loud, boisterous, teenage boys hyping each other up.
The team is arriving, suiting up and joking around.
I can hear Jeff’s distinctive laugh, followed by the clatter of sticks being pulled from bags.
Someone’s already turned on the locker room music—some rap song with heavy bass that vibrates through the walls.
Devin stands and brushes off the seat of her pants, professional distance sliding back into place like armor. “Good luck at your first practice.”
“Thank you.” I stand as well, wanting to say more, but she’s already heading out of the room, her hand on the door handle.
She pauses at the threshold, silhouetted against the harsh hallway lights.
For a second, I think she might turn around, might say something more.
But then she pushes through the door, letting it close softly behind her.
Through the window, I watch her walk away, her stride purposeful but not rushed, stopping to exchange a few words with one of the early-arriving players.
It’s time for me to get to work, our moment is over. I grab my bag from where I dropped it, take one more deep breath to center myself, and head for the door. My hand on the handle, I allow myself one last thought before stepping into my new role.
But hopefully, it wasn’t the last one.