Choking
Traumatized & anxious Sidney Crosby
Summary : After a dirty fight on the ice leaves him traumatized. Sidney is trapped in his own head. Can he conquer the terror, or will the fear win ?
Warning : Non-fatal strangulation, severe panic attacks/PTSD, injury aftermath, swearing.
Word Count: 5179 words
The game had been tight since the beginning. The Panthers players wanted to win, but the Pens too. Plus the Tkachuk brothers were in a hell of mood, the game was way tougher than Sidney liked it to be. Every hit was made to hurt. Not to injure especially, but to HURT. And yeah, Sid would be lying if he didn’t admit his legs were burning and his back was sore from all the hits he had taken, the first two periods.
There were 6 minutes in the third period, the score was 1 - 1. It was frustrating, not easing the mood of all the players. Both teams had traded goals in the opening minutes of the first, and the scoreboard had been frozen at 1-1 ever since. Everyone was getting tired of this game. Tanger was in the penalty box after getting in a fight with Matthew Tkachuk who was also in the box.
Sidney moved forward to pick up the puck which had been dumped into the corner of the Panthers’ zone. Brad was on him, trying to get the puck. Sidney turned to go behind their goalie, maybe then send the puck towards Rusty who was free of any defensemen. But he didn’t make it behind the goal. As he freed himself from Brad, Brady Tkachuk slid before him. He shoved Sidney into the board, hard. Sidney’s legs gave out, his balance shaken. The ice burned his chin. A dull pain settling into his lower left ribs. Sidney was lying on the ice, the weight of Tkachuk still on his back, even as the puck drifted away. Sidney didn’t have time to get up, as Brady Tkachuk grabbed his shirt and shoved him up on his legs. Sidney swayed a little, he leaned on the board, as Tkachuk didn’t release his grip on Sid’s jersey.
Sidney tried to yank himself free, planting a gloved hand firmly against Tkachuk’s chest to push him back. But his fingers accidentally caught the lip of Tkachuk's visor, jerking his head back. The crowd went wild and the volume in the arena into a deafening roar.
That was the spark. Tkachuk’s face contorted in pure fury. He dropped his stick, snapped his second hand forward, and grabbed Sidney by the collar of his jersey, violently ripping him away from the safety of the boards. Sid lost his footing and Tkachuk used his massive frame to drive him downward, throwing his entire body weight into a heavy, dynamic tackle.
Then as Sid back hit the ice, Tkachuk was on him. “You fucking asshole !”
Brady sat on Sid’s chest, and grabbed Sid’s neck. He was pressing hard. And Sid’s airway was closed. He couldn’t breathe. Sid started to panic, he raised his hands to grab at Brady’s sleeves, trying to get his throat out of the deadly grip. But his gloves still on his hand didn’t help him at all. Brady's fingers pressed more against his throat, and a choked sound escaped from Sid‘s lips. His ears popped and the arena's noise suddenly went distant and fuzzy. Sidney moved his legs, then his whole body, to try to get out of the damn grip, but nothing was working and Sidney was choking. Panic flared in his chest. His lungs burned, his vision got blurry as he saw a referee come by and try to shove Brady away. But the hands kept holding his throat, and Sidney could feel his mind go fuzzy, his thoughts starting to blur all together, only one stayed clear.
IcantbreatheIcantbreatheIcantbreatheHelpHelpHelpIcantbreathehelpHELP!
Everything was dark. There were screams everywhere. And suddenly, the weight on his chest got shoved away, and with it, the press of hand on his throat. Sid immediately gasped for air, he choked on it. His chest heaving, and his hands up to his throat to protect it. Sidney rolled on his side, curling up on himself, as he tried to draw more air in his burning lungs. Hands were on him, pressing on his shoulder. Some hand tried to reach for his throat, probably some trainer to inspect it, but Sidney's mind went wild and he shoved the hand away, crawling backward across the ice to get as far away from that hand as possible. His mind was stuck on the previous threat and he couldn’t bear anyone getting near his throat. He tried to breathe through the pain in his trachea but it was hard.
“Sidney, look at me please !” Some trainer's voice shouted next to him.
But Sidney couldn’t understand him, lost in his panic to make sense of anything. His hard and painful breathing started to go erratic. Hands grabbed his shoulders again, shaking him. “Sidney !”
Sid opened his eyes, when had he closed them ? And looked through his blurry vision, several trainers were facing him. Opening his eyes sent a horrific pain shooting through his head. He tried to focus through it, to understand what they wanted from him, but it was so hard. A trainer moved his hand slowly toward Sid’s neck. Sid couldn’t help the whimper escaping his lips. He writhed on the ice, knowing he had to let the trainer look at his neck, but at the same time wanting absolutely no one to come near it. The hand slowly unbuckled his helmet, and sid relaxed a little as the helmet was taken off his head. It made him feel a little better. Then the hand went back toward his neck, still slowly and with extreme care. Sidney’s body tensed, but he let it happen. He went completely rigid as the trainer's hand gently felt around his neck. It seemed to last forever for Sidney, when it really lasted only a few seconds. A third trainer came into Sidney’s view, carrying an oxygen tank and a mask. He pushed the mask on Sid’s nose, helping him breathe. Sidney felt better thanks to it, he raised his own hands to hold the mask against his face. The second trainer came behind Sidney and helped him to sit down. Sidney swayed a little, his whole weight leaning into the trainer.
Sidney’s head felt dizzy as he sat against the trainer's chest. Suddenly he felt very tired, his vision swam, while trainers were talking to him. “Sidney, can you hear us ?”
Sidney nodded slightly, not wanting to move his painful throat.
“Can you get up or do we bring the stretcher ?”
Sidney took a while before giving an answer. The trainer was about to wave to a player to ask for a stretcher but Sidney started to push on his arms to try to get up.
“Hey ! Easy Sid ! Easy !”
Sid didn’t listen to the comment, he just wanted to go home curled up in his bed and sleep forever. He kept pushing on his hands.
“If you're walking, you lean on us. Understand Sidney ?” the lead trainer ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Rakell and Rusty flanked him, hooking their shoulders under his armpits and lifting. The moment his skates took his own weight, a sickening wave of nausea hit him. His knees buckled, and if it weren't for the crushing grip holding his torso up, he would have collapsed right back on the ice.
The distance to the rink exit seemed endless. Without his helmet, the freezing air hit his sweaty hair, making him shiver violently. Sidney kept his chin locked tight against his chest, not only did lifting his head send a blinding spike through his skull and make the arena spin violently, but his clouding, panicked brain desperately demanded he shield his battered throat from the world.
He could feel the heavy eyes of the crowd tracking his slow, pathetic crawl toward the gate. As they finally reached the bench, the smooth ice gave way to the harsh, black rubber matting of the tunnel. And his weight was passed from Rusty and Rakell to two trainers. The bright, clinical fluorescent lights of the corridor slammed into his eyes, triggering a sharp, stabbing spike of pain behind his temples. His legs were entirely useless now, dragging helplessly behind him as the trainers practically carried him past the locker room doors straight into the medical room. They deposited him onto the examination table. Without the icy chill of the rink to numb him, he felt raw and completely exposed, his chest shuddering with every shallow, ragged breath that wheezed painfully through his damaged trachea.
_____________________________________________________
After having gone through all the exams necessary to unsure no permanent damage had been done, Sid is released from the infirmary. The X-rays of his cervical spine are clear; the scope down his throat shows no structural collapse of his larynx. But "no permanent damage" does not mean "unhurt."
It means he will not die tonight. It means he can breathe, technically. It does not mean that he can speak or swallow without any pain.
When Sidney looked in the clinic mirror to put his loose t-shirt back on, facing his own reflection was a gut punch. The dark, ugly shape of fingers was already blooming across his throat in deep shades of bruised violet and crimson. The bruises wrapped around his neck like a collar, but his eyes were worse. The pressure of the suffocation had burst dozens of tiny blood vessels, scattering angry red streaks across the whites of his eyes and making him look wild.
He tried to touch his neck experimentally, curiosity getting the better of him. But a sharp pain shot through his throat. He jerked his hand back, knocking his elbow against the metal cabinet. The pain radiated down into his chest and up into his jaw. When he tried to clear his throat to test his voice, what came out was a ruined, breathless rasp that sounded like wind through a broken harmonica. He decided to stop trying.
The Penguins' security team wasn't about to let the media or any lingering fans see the face of the franchise looking like a survivor of a street fight. So, they bypassed the main corridors to guide Sid to the underground loading dock. He kept his chin tucked while walking, lifting his head made the hallway spin. In the underground loading dock, the Pittsburgh winter bit through his thin jacket.
But he didn’t stay long in the cold, because waiting there next to a black SUV was Tanger. He must have bypassed the post-game media. He was still half-dressed in his under-gear but a heavy winter jacket was thrown over it. Sid noticed Tanger’s knuckles were still raw and swollen from his fight on ice.
The team doctor intercepted them at the vehicle. His voice was low and serious as he spoke to Tanger, meant only for his ears. Sidney, stared blankly at the oil-stained concrete. "He does not sleep alone tonight. Not for the next 48 hours. His airway could swell. It is already edematous. If he exhibits any symptoms of respiratory distress, if his voice becomes muffled or he starts drooling, you call 911 immediately. Understood?"
Tanger nodded, his face grave. "Yeah. I got him."
The team doctor shot a look at Sidney, and leaned to whisper something in Tanger's ear. “He still seems to be in a state of shock, so make sure you're there when he comes out of it. I'm afraid he could experience severe anxiety or a panic attack. And keep him warm.”
Tanger nodded again to the doctor as the security guard helped Sid into the passenger seat. Tanger got in the car too, helped adjust the seat back so Sid could recline, and pulled out into the cool night.
The drive to Kris’s house was dead silent. Even though Tanger had known Sid for years and considered him as one of his closest friends, he didn't know what to say tonight. So he just drove, his jaw tight, occasionally glancing over at the purple handprints wrapping around Sid's throat. Sid couldn't have answered anyway, his throat felt like it was stuffed with broken glass. When they arrived, he let Tanger guide him inside. Tanger dumped Sid's gear bag by the door, making no big deal out of it.
Tanger’s son, Alex, was sitting on the stairs, still awake despite how late it was. He had been watching the game on TV. He had seen the fight. He had seen his dad in the penalty box, and he had seen Uncle Sid get choked on the ice.
He had seen Sid's legs stop kicking.
He had seen him go still.
Alex watched Sidney with teary eyes, his gaze locked on the ugly, dark bruises painting his neck.
"Uncle Sid?" Alex whispered, his voice small and scared.
Sid’s heart broke a little. He hated when the kids saw this side of the game, the dirty one. He tried to smile, to play the usual "tough hockey player", but the moment he attempted to speak to comfort him, his throat caught, producing only a dry, painful wheeze. Sidney instinctively clutched his neck, flinching at his own touch.
Tanger stepped between his son and his friend, putting a protective hand on Alex’s shoulder. "Hey, buddy. Uncle Sid is just really tired and his throat hurts. We’re going to get him some water and let him sleep, okay?"
Sid reached out, offering a tired, reassuring squeeze to Alex’s knee as he passed. Alex nodded slowly, his wide eyes tracking the way Sid kept his chin locked tight to his chest, desperately trying to hide his neck from view. Tanger helped Sid up to the guest room, leaving a tall glass of water on the nightstand. Sid collapsed onto the bed in his sweatpants, desperate to escape into sleep. But the moment his head hit the pillow, his throat constricted.
The sudden, weirdly claustrophobic tightness made him sit straight back up, coughing roughly into his arm. The physical pressure of lying flat felt too much like the heavy weight of Tkachuk's body pinning him down all over again. He leaned his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes in sheer frustration. Come on, he thought, angry at his own body. You're fine. It's over.
He rubbed his face, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. Accepting defeat, he dragged a second pillow behind his back, resigning himself to sleeping propped upright against the headboard. He sipped a bit of the water before putting the glass back on the nightstand. It hurt like hell, every swallow felt like pushing a razor blade down his throat.
Then, a few minutes later he must have dozed off…
Because suddenly, he jerks awake with a gasp, his hands fly to his throat. He is suffocating, he is convinced he cannot breathe, convinced the crushing weight is back on his chest.
The room is dark. And he cannot remember turning off the light. His heart hammers against his ribs, a shadow moves in the doorway, Tanger. It’s just Tanger.
"Hey," Kris Letang whispers. He is standing in the doorway, a worried look on his face. "You were making weird noises, like gasping.."
Sid can't answer. He just nods, his hands still clutching his throat, his breath coming in short, panicked hitches. Tanger, finally noticing the distress in Sid's body, crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn't touch Sid, he just sits close enough that Sid can feel the warmth radiating from him.
"You're safe," Tanger says quietly. "He's gone. You're here, in my guest room, there is only us. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow."
Sid tries. It hurts, but he tries matching his ragged breaths to Tanger's steady rhythm. It takes ten minutes for his heart rate to slow butTanger doesn't leave. He sits there until Sid's hands fall from his throat, until his breathing evens out into something resembling sleep.
"Doc said I gotta check on you every couple hours," Tanger says softly. "I'll be on the couch. You need anything, you text me okay ? Don't try to yell."
Sid nods, reaching out to squeeze Tanger's hand once in gratitude.
After that, he kinda drifts in and out all the night, never quite reaching deep sleep. Every time his head lolls forward, the pressure on his throat wakes him with a start. By morning, he is exhausted, his eyes are burning, and his throat feels like sand paper. The bruises have darkened overnight, turning a sickening shade of yellow-green at the edges and deep purple in the centers. He decide to not speak at all for now, he doesn’t want it to hurt again. Tanger makes him oatmeal, something soft and easy to swallow with honey to coat the throat. Still, eating is an ordeal and drinking is even worse.
Sid spends the day on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his hand constantly at his neck.
The next day is the same. And the next.
By the fourth day, the swelling has decreased enough that he can manage a whisper without it being too painful, and the team wants him back at the rink for "re-evaluation." He can't hide forever.
Sid is back at the facility, trying to feel normal again. He wears a loose, stretched-out turtleneck that chafes against the tender skin but hides the bruises that have now turned a mottled yellow and deep violet. His fingers constantly, unconsciously tug at the collar to keep the fabric away from his sensitive skin. He is walking down the busy corridor near the training room, carrying a roll of tape, his mind exhausted from constantly being on guard, from cataloging every person who comes too close. Around the corner comes Geno. He is joking with a trainer, looking backward over his shoulder as he walks.
They collide.
It is a clumsy hallway bump, but as Geno loses his footing, his giant frame stumbles forward. Geno's massive hand shoots out to steady himself, catching Sid firmly right on the shoulder, his thumbs pressing near his collarbone. As his fingers brush the tender, bruised skin of Sid's neck, instinct takes over before Sid's brain can stop it. With a sharp, wheezing gasp, Sid violently slaps Geno's hand away, taking a quick step back against the wall. His hand flies up to shield his throat, his chest heaving as he stares at Geno with wide eyes.
Geno’s jaw drops. He looks at his own hand, then at the dark bruises peeking out of Sid’s collar. As the realization of what he’s touched hits him, his face crumbles.
"Sid... shit, Sid, I'm sorry," Geno mutters, his voice dropping low. "I didn't mean to-"
"I'm fine," Sid tries to say, but it comes out as a whisper.
He lowers his hand from his neck, his cheeks burning with hot embarrassment. He hates that he flinched, he hates even more that Geno saw it. Looking down, he spots the roll of tape on the floor. Geno doesn't say anything, he just bends down, picks up the tape, and holds it out. Sid takes it, his hands shaking. Geno sees it but doesn't comment, a heavy, awkward tension stiffening both of their bodies.
_____________________________________________________
A few days later, Sid is still staying at Tanger’s. Doctors are worrying about him, they don't want him to be alone. And it’s late in the night or early in the morning when it happens.
Tkachuk's knee is pushing down on his sternum, and he can feel the thumbs pressing on his throat, the black spots dancing. And he cant breathe, he cant-
Sidney jerks awake with a scream stuck in his throat. A nightmare, but it feels too real ! His hands fly to his neck, trying to pry off hands that aren't there. He can't breathe, he can't breathe-
He falls out of bed, hitting the hard floor, and scrambling backward until his back slams against the wall. He pulls his knees to his chest, gasping and coughing, unable to stop. His throat and his eyes burn and his chest aches from the fictional weight.
The door flies open. Tanger is there, silhouetted by the hallway light, his hair wild, eyes wide. "Sid? Sid! What-"
"I can't–" Sid tries to speak but his throat seizes. He coughs, and it’s painful, he bangs his head back against the wall as he force his vocal cords the cooperate, cause he has to talk or else he is gonna die, cause he cant breath, he cant- "I can't I can't I can't–"
Tanger rushes in, drops to his knees in front of him. "Hey, hey, you're here. You're awake, you’re fine. Im here."
Sid looks at him. And as he succeeds in drawing one long gulp of air, something breaks.
"Fuck Tanger," he wheezes, and then he's crying, his voice shredding. "Fuck Tanger, I'm so fucking scared!"
Tanger reaches for him but Sid bats his hands away, screaming now, his face contorted. "I can't play anymore! I can't! I'm always wondering if someone is gonna jump at my throat and choke me! Every time! Even off-ice I see it coming!"
His voice cracks into a raw, broken rasp, but he keeps crying anyway, silent tears streaming down his face. He hits his own chest with his fist, forcing the words out through a throat that refuses to work. "I'm useless! I can't be near anyone without choking on myself now! I'm fucking useless!"
He collapses forward, sobbing, his whole body shaking. Tanger doesn't hesitate and grabs Sid. He pulls him in, holding him tight against his chest, pinning him there, safe.
"I got you," Tanger says, his own voice breaking. "I got you, Sid. You're safe here. I swear you are safe here, it's going to be okay."
Sid goes limp, crying into Tanger's shirt, his hands clutching fistfuls of the fabric. His throat is on fire, every sob hurts, every breath hurts. But he can't stop, the fear is pouring out of him, ugly and raw.
"I can't do it," Sid whispers, hoarse, broken. "I can't go back."
"Yes, you can," Tanger says, holding him tighter. "Not yet. But you will. And I'll be there. Geno will be there. We won't let anyone hurt you ever again."
"He could have killed me," Sid sobs. "He was gonna kill me."
"I know," Tanger says, and he is crying too now, silent tears tracking down his face. He feels the crushing weight of how close Sid came to dying that day, and the terrifying realization that even now, Sid is still dying in his arms, poisoned by a grip Brady refuses to let go of."I know, Sid. I saw. I saw."
They sit on the floor for an hour. Sid cries until he is empty, until his throat is so swollen he can't make a sound at all. And Tanger just holds him, rocking him slightly, not letting go. He won't let his friend die, not tonight, not ever.
_____________________________________________________
Two days later, Sid is alone in his bedroom. Tanger had to step out for a team meeting, Alex is at school and his wife is at work. The house is too quiet. Sid is crouched on the floor in the corner of his room. He is wearing a grey sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his head, casting his face in shadow. His hand is pressed hard against his eyes, fingers digging into his closed lids, pressing until he sees stars. He rocks back and forth, his knees drawn up to his chest. He knows he is making a sound, a strange, endless whine. And iIt hurts his throat, but he can't stop it. He stays like that for an hour, hiding, pressing his eyes until the pressure blocks out the memories. Until the black spots are from his own doing, not from Tkachuk's thumbs. He doesn't answer his phone. He doesn't hear the texts. He has gone somewhere deep inside himself where it is safe, where he is safe, where nobody can find his neck.
Three days later, Sid is outside. He is standing in the backyard, the grass cold and wet under his bare feet. He doesn't remember walking out here. His head is in his hands. His fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He is rocking slightly again, swaying on his feet. His shoulders are shaking.
He can't stop seeing it. The ice. The boards. The face above him, contorted with rage. The pressure.
He stands there in the open air, exposed, vulnerable, his head in his hands, crying silently, his body trembling. He is breaking apart and he doesn't know how to put himself back together.
The neighbor's dog barks, and Sid flinches so hard he nearly falls over. He wraps his arms around himself, hugging his own ribs, trying to hold himself together.
He stays outside until Tanger comes home and finds him there, frozen and shaking, and leads him back inside.
_____________________________________________________
A week passes, and Sid still hasn't skated, hasn't even touched his gear. The bags sit in the corner of the living room gathering dust.
One night, Geno shows up at Tanger's house. The two of them go talk somewhere quiet, returning a few minutes later with determined expressions on their faces. They stand together, in front of Sid, who is curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall. He hasn't showered in days, wearing the same oversized grey hoodie Tanger had lent him a week ago.
"We're going to the rink," Tanger says, dropping to his knees to level his eyes with Sid’s.
Sid shakes his head, terrified.
"Not for practice," Geno says, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, gently forcing Sid to look at him. "Rink empty, just us. No one else, I promise."
"I can't," Sid whispers. His throat is healing but the fear and anxiety are louder than the pain.
"You can," Tanger says, putting his hand on Sid's shoulder, light and careful. "Just to skate a little. You aren’t yourself without it Sid, we both know it."
Sid looks at them. Geno's eyes are soft and worried but Tanger's are determined. They drive there, the rink is dark except for one section of lights they turned on. The ice glows white and clean. Sid stands at the threshold in his sneakers, his heavy gear bag clutched in his hands. He hasn't touched it in weeks. His hands start to shake.
"I can't," he says again, voice cracking.
Geno takes the bag from him. "Sure you can Sid."
They help him. Tanger holds his shoulder pads steady while Geno laces his skates. They treat him like he is made of glass, but it reassures Sid actually, even if he is ashamed to admit it. When he stands on the rubber mat, looking down at the ice, his breath comes short, the boards look too close and the ice looks too hard. He can’t help but remember how it had been, pressed against his back while Brady pinned him down, hands locked around his throat, choking the life out of him.
"We'll be right there," Tanger says, stepping onto the ice first, holding out his hand. Geno offers a small, encouraging smile as he steps out beside him.
Sid takes a breath and steps onto the ice, his legs tremble. He glides one foot forward, then the other. The sound of his blades cutting the ice makes him flinch. They skate slow circles around him. Not touching him, but being there. Protecting him.
Tanger skates backward in front of him. "See ? You’re doing okay."
Sid follows him. His strokes are hesitant at first, his eyes constantly darting toward the boards as the memory of the hit replays on a loop in his head. But at some point, the noise in his mind finally goes quiet. He stops thinking about it. And for twenty minutes, they just skate.
Sid stops skating. He looks at his two friends, his teammates, his brothers.
"I don't know if I can play again," Sid admits, the truth tasting like ash in his mouth.
"You don't have to know," Tanger says, skating closer but not touching him. "You just have to try. We'll be there anyway."
"We protect you," Geno said, his voice a thick mix of hope and fierce protectiveness. "You not alone. Never alone."
Sid felt something warm crack open in his chest. Not healed. Not fixed. But there was hope now, too.
"Okay," he whispers,a small, fragile smile touching his lips. "Okay. I'll try."
Tanger smiles, small, sad and proud. "That's my captain."
They skate until Sid's legs burn, until he is sweating, until the ice feels like home again. When they leave, Sid looks back at the empty rink and he smiles. The boards are still there. The ice is still hard. But for the first time in weeks, he remembers that there is so much more to it than the pain.
_____________________________________________________
Three weeks later, Sid is back on the ice. The bruises have faded to a sickly yellow that he hides under his neck guard. The doctors have cleared him and the media have moved on. But Sid hasn't played a game since that night, and his chest is tight as he laces up his skates.
The opponent is the Flyers, like some weird joke from destiny.
The first period is rough. Every hit makes him flinch. Every time someone comes near the boards, his heart hammers against his ribs. He keeps seeing Tkachuk's face every time a player looks at him too long. Midway through the second period, Sid has the puck behind the net, he doesn't see the hit coming. The defenseman drives him into the boards, and they go down together, the defenseman landing on top of him. A knee on his chest, pinning him to the ice.
Panic explodes in Sid's head. His vision tunnels. And he thrashes, trying to get up. Not again Not again please go away help- but the guy is heavy, grinding him into the boards.
Then the weight is gone.
Geno is there, grabbing the Flyer by the back of his jersey and yanking him off Sid. Tanger flies in from the left, shoving the guy hard into the glass. Rusty is there too, and Rakell, forming a wall in front of Sid, blocking him from any threats. Sid is on his knees on the ice, gasping, his hand at his throat. But he is not alone. His teammates are circled around him, defending him.
Sid takes Geno's hand. Geno pulls him up, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder pad. Sid stands there on the ice, surrounded by his team, and realizes something. The panic will still be there, and the memory too, yes. But he is not alone on the ice, he never was. They are watching. They are here for him.
He is safe.
Hockey was never supposed to be about fear. It is supposed to be about family and love.
And the fear had made him forget that.
But now he remembers.
He fucking loves hockey more than he fears the hits.
_____________________________________________________
Note : I always wanted to write something about choking or lack of air, braid with some lingering trauma and anxiety. Did you notice Sid sliding in a small kind of depression without hockey ? Sid is made for hockey, I don't think he could live without it. It’s his north star, you know what I mean ? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it !
:)