Page 57 of For Pucking Ever

"The point is learning how to live with it. Not letting it define you. You're not broken, Derrick. You're healing, and healing isn't linear." She sits back, folding her hands in her lap. "And you're allowed to be angry that it's not easier. You're allowed to grieve the version of yourself that existed before the injury."

My throat tightens again. "And what if that version never comes back?"

She tilts her head slightly. "Then we build a new one. One that can hold all of this," she waves her hand in my direction and continues. "The strength, the fear, the failure, the fight. You don't have to erase any of it to move forward."

I sit in silence for a moment, her words echoing in the quiet room.

"I still don't know if I'm ready," I admit, voice low.

"You don't have to be," she says. "You just have to keep trying."

The room falls quiet again. My leg hasn't stopped bouncing, a persistent rhythm that matches my racing thoughts. Outside her window, the voices of my teammates can be heard in the distance, the sound of the Zamboni making its rounds along the ice, a familiar comfort.

"When I was five," I start, surprising myself, "my mom took me to my first hockey game. Nosebleed seats was all she could afford. I remember being mad we were so far away." A ghost of a smile touches my lips. "But then the goalies came out. That's when something clicked. The way they moved, how they controlled everything. . .I told my mom that night I was gonna be one of them."

Dr. Sloan nods, her expression open, not pushing.

"She worked two, sometimes three jobs to get me gear. Used stuff, mismatched pads. Kids laughed, but I didn't care." My fingers pick at a loose thread on my hoodie. "Every milestone, every achievement, it was all for her. My hockey achievements were an accumulation of both our hard work. I want to make every goal I save worth it.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight.

"And now? What does hockey mean to you now?" Dr. Sloan asks, her voice gentle but probing.

"That's the problem. I don't know anymore." The admission feels like ripping off a bandage, raw and stinging. "Before, it was everything. Simple. Now it's tangled up with the accident, with fear."

"That's normal," she replies.

"On the ice today, with Maxwell. . . I felt like I was back there. Finals. The lights. The sound the puck made when it—" I cut myself off, my hand unconsciously touching the faded scar near my temple. "For a second, I wasn't here anymore. I was there."

Dr. Sloan leans forward. "That's a flashback, Derrick. It's a normal response to trauma."

"Normal for someone who doesn't belong on professional ice anymore," I mutter.

"Is that what you believe? That you don't belong?"

The question hangs between us. I think about earlier, how Maxwell's shots had terrified me at first, then how something had shifted. How I'd found my body again, my reflexes, my instincts. The way Bast had watched me from across the ice, gray eyes intense.

"I don't know what I believe anymore," I admit. "But I know what I want."

"Which is?"

"To stop being afraid. To play like I used to." I pause, gathering courage. "To figure out how to get out of my own way."

Dr. Sloan's lips quirk in a small smile. "Those are good goals. Complex, but good."

"How do I even start?"

"You already have." She gestures toward me. "You showed up today, to practice, to this session. You faced Maxwell. You're talking about things that scare you."

I consider this, turning her words over in my mind. Maybe she's right. Maybe I've been so focused on what I've lost that I haven't recognized what I'm gaining. A new kind of strength, forged in pain but no less valuable.

"One day at a time?" I ask, a hint of my old self peeking through. This new mantra seems to be the theme of my life in more ways than one. One day, one moment, one night, step by freaking step. My words to live by.

Dr. Sloan smiles. "One day at a time. And remember, healing isn't about erasing what happened. It's about building something new with the pieces you have now."

As I stand to leave, I feel lighter somehow. Not fixed, she's right that there's no magic switch, but steadier. Like maybe I can do this after all.

One day at a time. One shot at a time. One conversation at a time.