RHETT

          The past couple of weeks have been a true emotional whirlwind.

          I don't know what's wrong with me. I've been doing this for a long time at this point, so, to me, there's no plausible reason for me to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, heart racing like I'm halfway through running a marathon. It makes me feel pathetically weak, unable to control my own body and trapped in a battle I can't win.

          The worst part of it all is that I don't know exactly what is triggering these feelings. Yeah, sure, that's the whole point of anxiety—it acts up for no reason, preparing you for impending danger without telling you what the danger is—and I'm stuck in a perpetual sense of doom, just waiting for tragedy to strike.

          It's like there's a comically large anvil hanging over my head by a thin, frail thread, except I can't see the anvil and don't know when the thread will give out; I just know it will. This might be my brain's idea of being prepared for the worst, which I should be giving it credit for, as it's, in theory, only trying to keep me alive instead of trying to keep me happy, but sometimes a guy would just like to get a break sometimes. Get a second to breathe without having to worry about tragedy being about to strike. It's Damocles' sword, anvil style.

          So, whenever someone tries to ask me what's wrong, I do have an answer for them. Funnily enough, it no longer involves shrugging or letting out a noncommittal groan, as everything about me runs away from any sort of commitment, obviously. I need to stay on brand.

          Everything is. 

          Everything is fucking wrong and it hurts deep in my bones, a pain far greater than that brought by any injury, and I've torn my ACL. Recovery from that injury, albeit draining and seemingly never ending, didn't feel nearly as gruesome as this.

          At least back then I could explain what was going on, what I was feeling, and which parts of my body were aching and I knew I'd be understood and validated; now, even with all the mental health awareness campaigns and even though increased attention is being paid to men's mental health, no one really understands unless they've been through it.

          It starts off as quiet rumbling in my brain, something that almost sounds like distant white noise coming from the television in the room across the hall. It's the kind of thing you learn to ignore and build your life around for as long as it's convenient. It's bothersome, but negligible. The longer you go on living around it and pretending it's not there, it feeds off your forced obliviousness more and more, and does everything in its power to get your attention.

          It makes you worry about valid concerns at first and it even turns you into a more grounded, attentive person. People are touched to know you think before you open your mouth to say anything to them and are amazed that you think about the consequences of your actions. They congratulate you for being focused and for having a good head on your shoulders, oblivious to all the turmoil going on inside your brain as you obsess about potentially ruining your life and/or every single relationship over doing or saying the wrong thing.

          You run out of things to think about because your mind is on high alert at all times, and your whole body is tired and aches and you can't pinpoint the exact source of the pain. You run out of safe spaces, too, and even the things you love become a source of intolerable stress thanks to a myriad of ways everything can go wrong.

          On the ice, I can fall the wrong way or have a heart attack or make a criminal mistake that either ruins my life, my career, or my team's chance at winning the championship. When I go out to my favorite places, the building can catch fire or be the target of an armed robbery. When I talk to my friends or Brie, they can very well pretend to tolerate me when I'm present, then wait until I leave so they can spend hours debating about how utterly obnoxious and insufferable I am and how they can't wait to get rid of me.

          To most people, all of this sounds ridiculous and a stretch. It makes me sound self-absorbed and narcissistic, which, in a way, is actually true. To me, it sounds like the horrible reality I'm stuck in, day after day, and it takes me an absurd amount of mental—and, sometimes, physical—effort to ease these feelings just enough so I can at least try to live a barely normal life.

          I've spent the past two weeks absolutely on edge. I'm on medication—have been since the summer, which is when things got considerably worse than my usual standard—but I've found they can sometimes backfire and affect my performance.

          On the ice. Jesus.

          They can leave me quite agitated, not to mention the pounding migraines. Both of these combined make it unbelievably hard to focus during my lectures and, even though it's still early in the school year, I'm already fearing the long term effects of this temporary brain fog.

          Though it's not my fault in the literal sense of the word and most of my professors have been quite understanding so far, there's only so much they can do, and this isn't high school, where athletes get special treatment and people turn a blind eye when they start slacking off academically. They'd only get involved when it was time to give me athletes an ultimatum—either they got their grades up or they'd be kicked off the team, but no pressure—while now I'm expected to pull my weight like the rest of my classmates.

          Whether I'm trying to go pro in a few months hardly matters to anyone but me and Coach Gonzalez, who's not the most mental health savvy person in the world. I'm not easily intimidated, but the man is a fucking giant, both in size and in power, and it's utterly humiliating to mess up in front of him.

          So, when I somehow trip over my own skates during practice and nearly slice my foot right off, the echo of sharp blaring of his whistle across the rink sounds like a million voices screaming at me.

          YOU FAILED. YOU'RE A FAILURE. YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT.

          I know. I know. I know.

          I'm sorry.

          "Price, the only thing I'm asking you to do is to be focused on what you're doing," he dryly remarks, once the team skates towards him and stops in a half-moon shaped formation. "You're not fresh meat. You're not a rookie. This isn't the time to be making rookie mistakes, not when this is your final year of college. If you're still trying to get drafted, you can't pull this kind of stunt. Do I need to remind you how much there is at stake here?"

          "No, Coach," I reply, through gritted teeth. Andy shoots me a commiserating look, face partially hidden under his helmet, while some guys in the back—the new members of the roster, too, as audacious as that sounds—snicker.

          I don't say anything, even with blood boiling in my veins, as I'm not trying to get myself kicked out because no one is irreplaceable, not even me, but those guys don't know that. All the newfound respect I had from them for bothering to show up to practice before tryouts has dissolved into dust; when you're part of this team, you need to support your teammates during hard times and rightfully call them out when they're being dickheads. Laughing at them when they're being chewed out isn't favorable to your reputation.

          I know all about caring about your reputation. I wish these kids would learn a thing or two from me, but team spirit isn't on their list of priorities. Call me Maslow 2.0, but I don't think that's productive in this situation.

          Luckily for them and unluckily for me and my ego, Coach doesn't even notice. The silence in my head is deafening, as I'm not used to my brain being this quiet, which can only mean something even worse is about to go down.

          Exhibit A: Next to me, Andy stifles a yawn and I wince when Coach turns to him. 

          He's always at the top of his game, being team captain and all, and, in Coach Gonzalez's eyes, you can't show up to practice tired if you want to consider yourself captain material. To me, Andy is the right person for the job, being able to remain neutral and impartial during arguments, but also being fully capable of keeping his cool during stressful situations. 

          Next to all of us hotheads, it was only logical we'd elect him as captain. Democracy, and all.

          "Am I boring you, de Haan?"

          Andy's shoulders jolt up. "No, Coach. I apologize."

          Things between him and Jackie have been somewhat shaky lately. He has always been great at keeping his personal and athletic lives separate, so, if he's letting them blend in with each other after so long, it must be more serious than I initially thought.

          With Andy, you learn you don't need to get too involved, as he convinces you he has everything planned out and can handle everything on his own through sheer wit and willpower (and his family's money when necessary, that is). The moment you witness his resolve falter, even if you're the only one who notices it because you know him that well, is also the moment that alerts you to the fact that the world is shifting out of its axis.

          For a split second, I worry he might quit the team out of stress. It's the only thing he can give up on, as he can't stop being a father and walking out on Jackie will never be an option, but I'm selfish enough to pray he won't. I can't do this without him.

          From the stands, Brie watches me, sitting next to Paige de Haan, out of all people. I didn't know they knew each other—they don't frequent the same circles, that's for sure—and, though Paige is much nicer once you get to properly know her and she's not giving off the impression that she hates everything about you, I worry about this arrangement. Paige is talking her ear off, a feat usually reserved for Brie herself, but the latter is paying more attention to me than to the conversation, which makes my stupid heart skip an even stupider beat.

          Things between us are still more awkward than ideal, but at least they're working out. After her blurted out confession from a few days ago, about how she's still searching for me in every relationship, I've been scared to even touch the subject of us taking a step forward and doing the whole meeting the parents thing.

          Yes, she knows my family and I know hers, but it's different. There are strings attached and there's our history, which will inevitably contaminate whatever opinion our families have of either of us, and I know her family won't exactly welcome me back with open arms. Her brothers, in particular, are mammoths I don't want to face when my mental stability is in the gutter, but we can't put it off for eternity. Taking her home to my parents is, in a shocking turn of events, the easier way out.

          It's been awkward because, for once, I'm not sure what I was confessing back to her. Yes, I'll catch her if she chooses to take the leap of faith by finally trusting me and believing things will be different this time, but will they, realistically? She might still be searching for me, but she's searching for a version of me that doesn't necessarily reflect the person I am today.

          I couldn't give her what she wanted back then and thought I could do it now, but, if all she wants is fire and uncertainty and ferocious kissing after an argument, then she really is chasing past-Rhett. The stability I'm looking for with my reputation around my family, the NHL, and the sponsors has to extend to other areas of my life, even if it doesn't include a committed monogamous relationship, and I can't give someone that much fire when I don't have it inside myself anymore.

          I've burned out, as easily as putting out a candle. It's terrible to realize how easily and how quickly you can wreck your entire existence, but it's even worse when all you can do is watch helplessly as you repeatedly try and fail miserably at putting yourself back together. If all Brie is looking for when it comes to a relationship is an iteration of me that has it all figured out and can give her the fiery intensity of something we shared four years ago, I don't see how we can align our goals.

          So, I focus on training camp. For now. It's the most I can handle right now, even with her pretty eyes glued to me, as preseason matches are right around the corner. I'm good at hockey, far better than I am at relationships—both the real and the fake ones—so I need to redirect my attention back to the serious matter at hand.

          I'm a forward. I'm the first line of attack and, when the assistant coach—Coach Tripp—drops the puck for the faceoff, I know what I need to do. In theory. It's as simple as knocking back the puck to my teammates, the most basic of skills, and surely even my sleep-deprived brain can do that even without mechanically being told to do so.

          My stick collides against Jeff's in the commotion, the overwhelm of information making it hard to choose what to direct my attention to. There's the puck, the sticks, Jeff, and my skates and their sharp blades—the ones I'm supposed to be so worried about when my footwork isn't at its best.

          Amidst my confusion, Jeff easily overpowers me and shoots the puck behind him, passing it along to the wingers, and I swear I can hear the players on my side groan in frustration and impatience. I don't know whether it's real or if it's just in my head, but it's not their responsibility to coddle me when I can't perform at a barely acceptable level. I wouldn't want them to coddle me even if they had to do it, but that's hardly the worst part.

          The disappointed look in Coach Gonzalez's face is. I can't ignore it or pass it off as a product of my imagination when he's staring right at me as he skates out of our way, even if he technically can't play favorites.

          Under normal circumstances, this would serve as an incentive to do better, but, considering my current state of mind, it's only a reminder of how much I have to lose if I keep making stupid mistakes, one after the other. There's a massive target on my back, whether I want to admit it or not, and I need to get my head in the game if I want to go pro. This is what my parents were so worried about, I'm assuming—my inability to direct my attention to the commitments that matter, powered by my low time management skills.

          Even when I've been on the ice my whole life, even when I was trained by a former Olympic player, I still haven't learned enough and can't seem to translate the little theoretical knowledge I have into practice. Time management matters, both on and off the ice; I need to know how to prioritize, when I should be bulking up, when I should turn to my studies, when I should give myself some room to breathe and go out.

          I don't know any of those things. It's painful and dangerous, a tremendous step towards psychological burnout, but there's no space in my head left. There's no opportunity to learn time management, and I'm suffering the consequences.

         Andy used to try and remind me to not take everything so seriously all the time, that this is supposed to be fun, but I can't. I'm physically unable to treat hockey as a mere hobby, not when I've spent my whole life caring for it like it's the one thing in my life that has ever made any sense—it's what I was born to do, and I've chosen to embrace it.

          Even if it hadn't been pretty much imposed on me for the family legacy's sake, I could have chosen to ignore it and forge my own path away from it, but there's a reason I still ended up on the ice. It's because I love it so much it hurts my soul, because I want to be twice the legend my dad was back during his prime, and I know I can't do it if I keep acting like a rookie.

          Everyone has to start somewhere, but I'm not just some guy with a stick, a pair of ice skates, and a dream. I'm Rhett fucking Price. I'm legacy.

          I can't fall back on Coach Gonzalez's good graces if I can't even hold my own during three-on-three drills—against Jeff Jefferson, out of all people. He's good when he wants to be, I'll give him that, but he's younger than me, and it stings even harder to be absolutely demolished by someone I personally mentored. Now, I won't say I taught him everything he knows, but there's some of me in the way the kid plays, and I don't take lightly to having my own strategies used against me.

          "This is a friendly practice session, Jefferson," I tell him. "Save the dirty plays for when you're part of the starting roster."

          "With the way you've been playing—with all due respect, man—I think I might be chosen over you," he retorts. Though his choice of words is blunt and unfriendly, there's nothing taunting about his tone. It's just the harsh truth, and we both know it. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to bring your A game. Start of the season or not, all eyes are on you. Not on me."

          I scoff. "Are you looking out for me?"

          "It's what you would be doing for me."

          Obnoxiously dumb or not, he has a point. If it was him playing like shit during preseason, I'd be all up his ass pressuring him to get it together before he does something dumb—like embarrassing himself in front of the rest of the team, all the coaches, potential scouts and sponsors, his family, and the girl he's trying to impress.

          I grit my teeth and risk one final glance towards Brie. She's sitting on the edge of her seat, wearing my jacket, and the sight ignites something in me—it's a small spark, but it's enough to heat me back up. I square my shoulders, fix my gloves, and nod towards Coach Gonzalez.

          "Let's do it again," I ask him.

          "You don't get to give orders on my rink, Price," he dryly replies. "Get back to your places."

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i still can't write hockey scenes. it's bad. it's oh so bad. i'm learning though but pls give me pointers i feel so lost