Page 98 of Off-Limits as Puck

Maybe healing happens one practice at a time, one kid at a time, one moment of pure hockey joy at a time.

My reflection in the rearview mirror shows someone I’m starting to recognize again—tired but not broken, scarred but not bitter.

Someone who might be worth believing in.

Even if Chelsea never sees it.

36

Rock bottom has surprisingly decent Wi-Fi, which makes it easier to avoid human contact while maintaining the illusion of professional productivity.

I’m three months into my Phoenix exile, treating anxiety disorders and relationship conflicts from my beige therapy office, when my neighbor decides to become the universe’s most persistent do-gooder. Frank Morales is seventy-two, a former high school basketball coach who apparently thinks my hermit routine needs intervention.

“You can’t hide forever,” he says, cornering me by the mailboxes with the determination of the social old man that he is.

I smile. “Hello, Frank. So, I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

“You’re existing. There’s a difference.” He hands me a flyer that looks like it was designed by someone who learned graphic design from a cereal box. “I need to ask a favor of you since you are part of this community now, and you are smart as a whip. It’sa speaking opportunity. You can change some kiddos lives.”

“I don’t think—”

“These kids deal with more stress before breakfast than most adults handle all day. Gang pressure, family addiction, academic expectations they can’t meet. Sound familiar?”

The comparison stings because it’s accurate. I know about impossible expectations, about the weight of disappointing people who claim to love you. But these kids’ stakes are higher—survival instead of just success.

“I’m not exactly an inspirational speaker, Frank.”

He adjusts his glasses, fixing me with the kind of stare that probably made point guards confess to skipping practice. “These kids don’t need perfection. They need honesty.”

“What would I even talk about?”

“Mental toughness. Resilience. How to keep going when everything falls apart.” He pauses. “How to rebuild when you think you’ve lost everything.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

He laughs. “Atta girl!”

The Phoenix Community Center is exactly what you’d expect—linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and the kind of folding chairs that guaranteed discomfort. Forty kids aged twelve to seventeen fill the small auditorium, all attitude and skepticism, arms crossed like armor against whatever bullshit adult wisdom is about to be dispensed.

“This is Dr. Chelsea Clark,” Frank announces with more enthusiasm than the situation warrants. “She’s going to talk to you about mental performance and handling pressure.”

I step to the makeshift podium, scanning faces that range from bored to hostile. A girl in the front row rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. A boy near the back is already texting, clearly planning his escape route.

“How many of you think therapy is bullshit?” I start.

Half the hands in the room shoot up. The other half look like they want to but aren’t sure if it’s a trap.

“Good. So do I, most of the time.”

That gets their attention. The texting stops. Even eye-roll girl looks curious.

“Here’s what I know about pressure,” I continue, abandoning my planned speech about goal-setting and positive thinking. “It doesn’t care about your age, your background, or whether you think you’re strong enough to handle it. It finds your weak spots and pushes until something breaks.”

“So what’s the point?” calls out a boy from the middle section. “If it’s gonna break us anyway?”

“The point is choosing what breaks. Do you break and rebuild stronger? Or do you break and stay broken?”

I tell them about Chicago. Not the sanitized version where I’m a victim of circumstances, but the real story—a woman who had everything mapped out until she met someone who made her want to throw the map away. How I chose feeling over safety, chaos over control, and lost everything I thought defined me.

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