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*mature content*
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Sloane Casey's life takes an unexpected turn when she becomes the new physical therapy assistant for the college ice hockey team. Needing the credits for her physiology studies, she is prepared to handle bruises and sp...
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Malachi
Change is kinda like being thrown into a cold lake—you can either fight it and struggle to stay afloat, or you can learn to swim and let the water carry you where it may.
That's essentially how I feel now—like I've just dived into freezing water. It's shocking, suffocating, and every instinct tells you to fight it, to thrash against the cold that's seeping into your bones. But fighting only wears you out, and sooner or later, you have to face the reality that the water isn't going away. So, you've got a choice: keep struggling, or let go and find a way to move with it. That's the hard part—admitting that you can't control everything, that sometimes, you have to stop resisting and just let the current take you. You drown, or you float. It's terrifying, but maybe, just maybe, it's the only way to survive.
The familiar sight of my bedroom greets me as I step through the door, the warm afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn curtains. Everything is just as I left it—the posters on the walls, the books scattered across the desk, my hockey gear tossed haphazardly in the corner. But somehow, it feels different, like I'm stepping into a place I no longer recognise.
Maybe it's because I haven't been here in days, or maybe it's because I'm still trying to wrap my head around what happened. Either way, the room feels foreign, and I can't shake the unease that's settled in my chest since I left the hospital.
I know Sloane was there with me, I remember seeing her once or twice, but I don't remember anything she said. Or what I said for that matter.
I drop my duffel bag on the floor, wincing as the movement sends a sharp pain through my head. The headache has been my constant companion since the game—dull and throbbing, a reminder of just how close I came to losing everything.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of my neck as I try to push the thoughts away. The doctors said the concussion was serious but not catastrophic, and that with rest and proper care, I'd be back to normal in a few weeks. But hearing that and believing it are two different things. The idea of being sidelined for two weeks—two crucial weeks when the team needs me the most—is enough to drive me insane.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance up as the door swings open. My dad—my coach—stands in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and determination. He's still wearing his OSU windbreaker, his cap pulled low over his graying hair, and for a moment, he looks more like my coach than my father.
"Hey," he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"
I shrug, not meeting his eyes. "I've been better."
My dad still lives with my mom in downtown Columbus but he sometimes comes over in the mornings before going to his office in the sp.
He nods, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. "I can imagine. The doctors said you need to take it easy for a while, no physical activity for at least two weeks."
