I’m sorry, Ben. I could barely manage to open my goddamn eyes, let alone look my father in the face. Talking to you, being honest with you, felt like climbing Everest because the idea of never being on the ice again was suddenly just as terrifying as being on the ice again. I hated myself almost as much as hockey hates me, and I didn’t want to feel anything even remotely comfortable, and you’re a savior, a protector—you couldn’t protect me from this. You’re my best friend, and I never wanted to hurt you, but everything inside me turned black, decayed, and it’s still nothing good. I am nothing
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