Page 44 of Shattered On Ice

No matter what the DOPS ruling is, I know what I felt before I hit him. I wanted to crush him. I wanted him to hurt. To pay for what he’d done to me. It wasn't a clean hit at all. I kept my feet moving to maximize the damage. I got away with ending a man’s career because the league thought I just lost control of my speed. It’s the biggest miscarriage of justice I’ve ever seen. If someone did that to me, I wouldn’t be able to let them live with their actions. Yet here I am, signing over a check and serving a brief timeout to make everything go away. Fucking monster. I’m no better than Benoit.

“Hey, Westy, I need to talk to you,” Monty calls as I walk through the door for practice.

I turn to my captain, still in his hoodie and jeans, beckoning me into the PT office instead of letting me head to the locker room where we’d be changing to get on the ice. I follow him in, and he shuts the door behind us, closing out the noise of other players. He gestures at a pair of rolling stools, and we both sit.

“What’s up, Cap? Got another photo shoot you need help with or something?” I ask, forcing a brittle smile. It’s getting harder to hold the mask in place, little pieces chipping away and cracking every day.

“How are you doing? I know the DOPS ruling and the suspension have to be weighing on you.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thick thighs, his dark, sincere eyes boring into my soul.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “It could have been worse.” No, no, no. I don’t want him asking any questions about this. My hands tighten on my pants, fingers gripping the rough material to keep my shaking in check.

“I’m sure he deserved what he got,” Monty says quietly. “I know he was directing his nasty slurs at me at first, but he was targeting you. I saw his face. You guys have history?”

“It’s nothing,” I deflect, knowing he’ll need more than that to drop this. “He’s an asshole I played with in Juniors back in Québec.” My heart is beating so hard it’s ready to jump out of my chest. My knee won't stop bouncing. Sweat has beaded at my nape and trickled down my spine in an agonizing path that has me ready to tear my shirt off.

“It sounded like more than just being an asshole. If you want to talk about anything,” he emphasizes, “I’m here. I know certain things can be hard in this sport. You don't have to carry it alone.”

He looks at me a second longer, but when I don't give him anything, he just nods in understanding. I stand so quickly that I knock over the stool. I don't even bother to right it before I burst out of the claustrophobic little room, my breath coming in gasps. If Monty is putting things together, questioning if Benoit’s nasty slurs had merit, who else is secretly speculating about my sexual orientation? The whole team?

I get my gear on and race out onto the ice, unable to catch my breath. I’m hoping the monotony of running drills and getting back into the flow will ease my racing mind. But when one of the rookies, Cody Bischoff, comes at me along the boards, and muscle memory dictates I should check him, I get flashes of Benoit’s crumpled form on the ice after connecting with the boards. I flinch away, Bischoff blowing by me without contest. I swear, knowing I just messed up something so basic.

When Chad sends me a pass that should be a piece of cake, my brain flashes back to Benoit on the stretcher being carried off the ice. I suddenly don't know how to hold my stick. The angle of the blade on the ice is wrong. Is the puck coming at me fast or slow? I can’t gauge it. Should I be holding the stick higher or lower? Why does everything feel wrong all of a sudden? The puck bounces off my skates and is intercepted before I can figure my shit out.

Is this even my stick? Maybe I grabbed someone else’s by mistake. I turn it over and see Dumont in black marker on the tape. Okay, so it’s just me that’s fucked up. I shake my head, hoping to clear whatever is messing with me.

My knees wobble as I skate, something I haven't experienced since I was a child just getting used to the ice, and I look down in confusion at my body that has turned traitor on me. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I reach for a puck, intent on shooting at the open goal to prove I can do something right, but again, my stick feels wrong, too loose in my hands, like I don't know how to hold it. I’m focused on how it should feel, when it’s normally an extension of my hands, and I don't feel it at all. I scrape the ice with the blade as I try to slide the puck, and let out a grunt of frustration as static builds in my ears.

“Dumont, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Coach Kennedy calls, clearly picking up on my issues.

I turn toward him and find everyone on the ice, the entire team and coaching staff, watching me struggle to control a puck and hold my stick. My face burns as my eyes prick with shame and anger. I don't need them to witness this. It’s bad enough I’m struggling on my own.

Monty skates up to me. “You okay?”

“I don't know,” I whisper frantically, staring at my trembling gloves that don't feel connected to my arms. “I bailed on a check with Bischoff. I missed a tape-to-tape pass. Monty, my hands don't feel like mine. I don't know how to hold my stick. I can't fucking play.”

“Fuck dude, you sure? Maybe it’s just a freeze thing, and you need to try a different drill?” he suggests, ever the encouraging captain.

I glare at him. “I flinched away instead of checking Bischoff. I couldn't take a pass.” I hold up my gloves, the tremor noticeable. “I don't feel like these are my hands, and I can’t figure out how to hold my fucking stick. I’m fucked.”

“You think…maybe it’s the yips?” he asks quietly, as if saying the word will bring bad luck to all of us. “You went through something really shitty and traumatic. It’s not surprising that your brain would struggle now when you're back on the ice.”

“The yips?” I repeat in monotone. The concept is unfathomable. That’s a death sentence for a professional athlete.

“Did I just hear you say the yips?” Coach Kennedy asks as he skates up next to us. He stares at me hard. Coach is a fair man, but I don't like the way he’s looking at me right now. “This is serious. If your head’s not right, I’m not letting you practice. Get off my ice, Dumont.”

“Coach, no,” I beg, my voice a gravelly rasp as my world begins to unravel.

“I don't want to hear it. Now go. Get changed, and I’ll talk to you in my office. We need to figure out what to do with you.” He dismisses me and turns back to the team still practicing, calling for the next set of drills.

I turn as rage builds, hot and prickling along my skin, pushing out the fear and anxiety that was spiraling in me. This isn't fair. I need to be here, fixing whatever the fuck is wrong with me. Getting kicked off the ice puts me behind and only makes this worse. I wind up and slam my stupid stick against the boards as I leave the ice, snapping it in two and tossing the pieces in the tunnel. I sure as fuck knew how to hold it to do that. Not everything is lost.

I shower and change, letting my thoughts spin out of control. I’m going to lose my contract after all, and it won't be Benoit that does it, but my own inability to hold it together now.

Coach pops his head into the locker room at the end of practice and gestures for me to follow him. He sits behind his desk and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I know you're already serving a five-game suspension, but I’m making it indefinite. I’m officially pulling you from practice, too,” Coach Kennedy says, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “You're a liability out there right now. I watched you flinch away from a check and miss an easy pass. You're not touching the ice until you get your head straight. I want you to see the team psychologist.”