Page 15 of Behind the Bench

When I finally see the source of the sound, panic ensues.

Link. Leaning up against the boards. Gasping for air.

What the fuck?

I skate over to him as fast as humanly possible. Trying not to startle him, I gently place my hand on his shoulder. In the calmest tone I can possibly muster, I ask, “Link. Are you okay? Is it your knee? Breathe for me.” I begin rubbing soothing circles on his back to try to calm him down. Well, at least I hope they’re soothing. It doesn’t seem to be doing much for him though.

I’m not sure what to do here. I look around, panicking, to see if I can flag down anyone to help us. The rink is deserted. It’s summertime, and no one uses the ice unless the players drop by to get a session in.

I’m so out of my depth here. It’s hard to keep my anger in check sometimes and I most certainly don’t know how to calmsomeone else down either. So I do the only thing I can think of.

I start singing.

Yes, you heard that right. Loud, proud, and impressively off-key, I start singing to this gorgeous man who seems to be having some type of crisis on the ice because I have no fucking idea what else to do.

“Skidamarink a-dink a-dink

Skidamarink a-doo

I love you

I love you in the morning

And in the afternoon

I love you in the evening

And underneath the moon”

I stretch out the word “moon” like my mom used to do when she’d sing to me every night before bed.

I’m about to start the chorus again when Link turns his head to look at me.

His words come out one at a time. “Ellie. Stop. Fucking. Singing. That. Song.”

At least he’s beginning to breathe better?

“Ope. Yep. Right. No more singing,” I stammer out. I don't even notice I’m still rubbing Link’s back until he barks out another command.

“Stop. Fucking. Touching. Me.”

I pull my hand back like I just touched the burner of a hot stove.

Link turns and repositions himself so his back is against the boards. Slowly, he slides down onto the ice and rests his head between his knees, taking deep breaths.

I’m not sure what to do with myself at this point, so I decide to just take a seat next to him. “Wanna talk about it?”

He pauses his deep breathing and picks his head up to look at me. “What do you think, Blondie?”

Is this guy for real? He was just having what looked to be either a heart attack or panic attack on the ice. I don’t know which one. I’m not a doctor. All I know is, it wasn’t good. He seems pretty calm now though, and I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

“I think you were just gasping so hard for air, it almost knocked you off your feet. Ithinkyou should probably talk to someone about what just happened, and I’m the only one here.”

Link takes another deep breath and I can almost feel the anger radiating off of his body.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. If I’m going to talk to anyone, you’re the last person I’deverconsider talking to.” He says it with such hatred, I swear he spits at me when he says the last part of that sentence, like I’m the worst fucking human on this planet and he’d rather die than talk to me.

Someone make it make sense. Did he not just come into my office, fully supportive of me as a coach, and offer encouragement?

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