“Come on, son.” Those words. My fragile shell starts to spider web. There’s nothing he could have said to affect me more. How long have I waited to hear that phrase spoken to me? When he puts an arm around my shoulder, leading me towards the door, my vision blurs. I don’t know the last time I cried. But I’m about to. As a 30-year-old professional athlete, the last thing I want to do in front of my hockey coach is fucking cry. But I’m at an absolute loss. His tone, his actions, his words, they lead me to believe that this will all somehow be okay.
