“Okay.”
The reply is automatic, reflexive. It’s the answer you give in passing because it’s the polite thing to do, not because it’s the truth.
I wait, letting the silence stretch between us, but he doesn’t break, just bounces his knee faster.
“What’s troubling you, Ollie?”
His shoulders stiffen, and for a second I think he’s going to bolt. His hands grip the armrests, knuckles white, but he sticks.
“This is a safe space.” I keep my voice low, striving for a soothing tone. “We can talk about anything you want to talk about. It doesn’t have to be hockey.”
Ollie doesn’t respond. Just drums his thumb against his kneecap, the sound amplified in the quiet space.
Then, like a dam bursting, the words come spilling out.
“I feel like I’m losing it,” he admits, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep it all together. It’s just too much. How can any one person do it all? I can’t— I just—”
He drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking, but his words hit the mark.
I open my desk drawer and pull out the crumpled note from the snowball fight. The one that’s been weighing on me for weeks. I smooth it out as best I can and slide it across the desk.
“Did you write this?”
He lifts his head, stares at the paper, and nods.
“Talk to me, Ollie.” I lean forward, resting my hands on the desk. “Tell me what’s going on. It’s the only way I can help.”
For a long moment, he just stares at the words on the page. Then he takes a shaky breath, and does the hardest thing of all: he starts talking.
“I got hurt last year. Near the end of the season.” He touches his right shoulder. “I took a nasty hit during the Rangers game and tore my rotator cuff.”
His words trigger a memory, and I flash back to the Fear in a Hat exercise. To Kristiansen’s guilt. To the guys talking about the hit.
Injuries are part of the game, but a rotator cuff tear is hard to come back from, and sharing a locker room with the guy who’s responsible?
That would eat at anyone.
“It was Kristiansen?” I ask quietly.
Ollie nods. “It was an accident. We talked it out, and he apologized like a hundred times.” He laughs bitterly. “I had surgery to repair it, and I was optimistic when the season started. I was a healthy scratch, but I figured I’d work my way back.”
His knee starts bouncing again.
“But then I started worrying about getting traded. So I pushed myself harder at practice. And when I finally started dressing for games, I—” He swallows, not meeting my eyes. “I hurt it again.”
“I’m so sorry, Ollie.” My gut twists, and even though it’s unprofessional as hell, I want to reach out and hug him. “Does Coach know?”
I ask the question, already knowing the answer. If my father knew about the injury, Ollie would be on IR with Sutter.
“I haven’t told anyone.” The words come out in a rush, laced with fear and desperation. “I can’t afford to be traded, and if they know I’m injured again, they’ll start making deals.”
“I understand your concern, but can you tell me why the prospect of a trade worries you so much?” Trades are part of the game, and while I’m no expert, it trumps getting sent down to the AHL or worse, having his contract terminated. “You’d still get to play the game you love. Wouldn’t that be better than playing through chronic pain and risking permanent damage?”
His eyes fill with tears, and I pass him a tissue from the box on my desk.
“When I moved to Atlanta last year, my parents came with me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “My parents are older, and my mom—” He attempts to square his shoulders, but it’s futile. He’s drained, physically and emotionally. “She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s six months ago. She’s deteriorating quickly, and some days she doesn’t even know who I am. I can’t move her to a new, unfamiliar place. She already gets so confused. The doc says she needs stability. A familiar environment. And my dad…he can’t take care of her alone. He needs me. They both do.”
Christ on a cracker. The kid is going through it.