Page 160 of The Fall

“I need to focus on hockey and stop overthinking.”

“Sometimes overthinking is our mind’s way of telling us we need to address an issue.” Her gaze stays on me for a long moment. “Stress can manifest physically. Extreme stress can even trigger neurological symptoms. But screaming until you collapse goes beyond typical stress responses.”

I swallow hard.

“You’ve been under enormous pressure to perform. Transitioning to a new team is hard, especially coming off your situation in Vancouver. But if there’s more?—”

“I’m okay,” I cut in. “Really.” My voice breaks. I clear my throat.

“Have you eaten?”

I shake my head.

“That’s not helping.” She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a protein bar, sliding it across to me. “It’s not a meal, but it’s better than nothing.”

I take it, fingers fumbling with the wrapper.

“Your body isn’t a machine you can run on willpower alone.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “Skipping meals, pushing through exhaustion. These aren’t signs of dedication. They’re self-sabotage. And emotional strain exacerbates what the body is going through. You’re pushing yourself too hard. This isn’t only exhaustion,” she says carefully. “This is an emotional collapse.”

Her office feels too small, too close. The walls trap my thoughts, bounce them back at me until they echo:collapse, collapse, collapse.

She sees right through me, through the brave face and the excuses and the mental walls I’ve built. Hockey isn’t the real problem. Neither is the concussion or the pressure or even what happened in Vancouver.

The real problem sits in her office, pretending everything’s fine while falling apart inside.

The real problem is me.

“You need to take care of yourself foryou. The person under the jersey matters.”

The person under the jersey is lost and scared and alone, but I nod anyway.

She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “What you’re describing sounds like a stress response compounded byphysical exhaustion and possibly a minor concussion from that hit. Your body shut down because you pushed it past its limits.”

I want to believe her, but what she’s saying doesn’t account for my sketchbooks full of imaginary moments or why I believe Blair and I loved each other when we haven’t. Or he hasn’t.

“I need to know if I can play tomorrow,” I say, redirecting.

“No.” Her answer comes without hesitation. “Absolutely not.”

“Doc—”

“This isn’t negotiable. You collapsed. You were disoriented. At minimum, you need twenty-four hours of rest.” She sits back, crossing her arms. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says, her tone softening. “I’m going to give you something for the pain. You need to hydrate, sleep, and limit your screen time, like with a concussion. I’ll take a look at you again Thursday, and if you’re doing better, we’ll discuss Friday’s game.”

Three days alone with my thoughts. Three days of staring at my apartment walls. Three days of trying not to picture Blair’s face when he looked at my drawings.

I want to argue, again, but the throbbing in my head proves her point. I nod, and when I lift my gaze again, hers hasn’t moved off of me.

“Torey, if anything like this happens again, or if you start feeling worse instead of better, I need you to come to me. Day or night.” She writes her cell number on a prescription pad and tears off the sheet. “This is my personal number. Use it.”

I take the paper, fold it twice, and tuck it into my pocket. “I’ll be fine,” I say.

“You’re not fine now,” she counters. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be fine all the time.”

No one’s ever given me permission to not be fine before. In hockey, weakness isn’t an option. You play through pain. You shut up and skate.

“I can help, but only if you let me. I’ll keep tonight between us, and I’ll write this up as post-concussion observation, but you have to meet me halfway. You’re not alone.”

But I am alone. I’ve burned the one bridge I was desperate to cross. Blair saw everything, and then he walked away without a word.