SKY’S POV
Six games left, and the anxiety spike hit me two hours before puck drop instead of during the game itself, which was new enough that I almost didn’t recognize what was happening until it had already started climbing.
I was in the equipment room, taping my stick the way I always did, same ritual, same number of wraps, when my chest tightened without any warning attached to it. No bad memory. No crowd noise. Just my own hands going still on the tape, my breath catching somewhere behind my ribs, the whole thing arriving out of nowhere the way it had that first night months ago.
I set the stick down. Closed my eyes. Counted.
Four in. Hold four. Four out.
It didn’t fully let go, not the way it usually did when I caught it early enough. This one had roots in something deeper than
