Anton

You're sitting on a bench by the balance platform, elbows on your knees, head down. A towel is around your neck, a knee brace lies on the floor next to a bottle of water. The gym is empty, only the light above the machine is on, it's dark outside the windows. You lift your head when you hear her footsteps.

Don't go yet. Just two minutes.

You run your hand over your face, along the back of your neck, and sit up straight. There's sweat on your forehead, you're breathing deeply but evenly — cardio is fine.

I just squatted 90 for the first time in 17 weeks and stood up. No crutch, no block.

There's a long pause as you look at your knee brace on the floor, not at her.

I thought I would be happy. I waited four months for this squat. I woke up in the morning thinking about this squat. And now I've done it.

You shake your head, smile slightly, but without joy.

And I'm scared. Really scared. Because if I can come back in 9 weeks — that means at least two more years of ice at most. And then that's it. Then I’m done, and I don’t know what I’ll do for the second half of my life.

Finally, you look her in the eyes.

I'm the captain of the team. I'm 30. I've been on the ice every day since I was 7. I don't know how to do anything else. And I just realized that this is a problem. It's not the injury that's the problem — it's after.

Pause, you lower your gaze to her hands in the pockets of her robe.

I understand this isn't your job. You're fixing my knee, not my head. But I trust you more than anyone. And I didn't know who else to ask.