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Maybe this is just another part of the entertainment, like the way they had fans don T-rex suits and fight over an exercise ball after the first period.
“Here—let me help. I’m Alec. Team Captain.”
“You gave me your number,” I say, and he laughs.
“All in good fun.” He removes his gloves to help fasten the strap underneath my chin, then taps me twice on the top of my helmet. “You look worried. Don’t be worried.”
“You just told me I need a helmet,” I argue. “I’m pretty sure I have reason to be worried.”
He gives no answer other than a last smile as he skates off, abandoning me in my metal chair. It was cold in the stands, but it’s freezing down here, and I wrap my arms around myself now that I don’t need to cling to the chair for dear life.
I wonder if I could make it back to the exit before whatever’s about to happen happens. But I don’t wholly trust my ability to make it on the ice without falling. When it comes down to being embarrassed while sitting in a chair or being embarrassed falling down in front of the crowd, I’m gonna stick with the chair.
Suddenly, the lights drop, leaving me in a blinding spotlight. A second spotlight appears at the tunnel. Eli makes his way out as the music shifts to “Marry You” by Bruno Mars.
Definitely a proposal.
The crowd cheers as Eli skates toward me, dribbling a puck and wearing a big grin. He’s not wearing a helmet, and blond hair whips around his face.
I hope I don’t look like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, even if that’s exactly how I feel. Not that I’ve had a panic attack. According to the articles I’ve read and the quizzes I’ve taken online, I don’t have social anxiety. I’m just shy.
But the tightness in my chest and the black dots I’m seeing in front of my eyes scream otherwise.
I try to focus on Eli and not on the blur of faces. The cheering. The question of what the heck did I agree to?
Eli picks up speed, circling behind me, behind the goal. The ten-ton pressure on my chest eases when he appears again and I see the smile that’s becoming so familiar, his bright eyes that almost always look like he’s plotting some kind of mischief.
Anchoring myself on these things helps a little, but I still find myself clutching the bottom of the metal chair, fingertips nearly numb. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering. I don’t feel cold anymore.
Honestly, I don’t feel much at all. Just a growing tension climbing my spine like a ladder, leaving tightness as it goes.
Dread rather than anticipation fills me as Eli does another lap. It’s probably only been a minute since he’s been on the ice, but I’ve lived a decade right here. The helmet is a pleasant barrier against the sound—at first.
Then, I start to feel it too tight around my temples. Too heavy, making my neck ache.
Breathe, I remind myself. In and out.Slowly. Just … breathe.
I’ve had moments of acute stress in certain situations, especially when I felt like the center of attention. There’s a real reason I managed to weasel my way out of every possible school assignment which required speaking in front of the class. I could never explain to my parents, who spent their working days behind a lectern in front of packed seminar rooms or on a stage. Never did I feel like such a confusing disappointment as when I failed the test that lost me valedictorian. I think they suspected the truth—I did it on purpose to get out of making a speech.
Breathe.
I force my eyes to follow Eli, only Eli, while talking myself through what’s happening.
It’s simple biology. My amygdala sent a panicked S.O.S. to my hypothalamus, telling it we’re in grave danger. Because clearly my amygdala is a little dramatic.
My hypothalamus responded instantly with “sir, yes sir” and passed orders down to my adrenal glands.
And they deployed hormone soldiers like cortisol, adrenaline, and a handful of others, who didn’t march but RAN into battle. A battle I’m now losing because of those very soldiers.
Thinking my way through the process might sound ridiculous, but it helps me more than any breathing technique. It’s the equivalent of a parent assuring you that it was just a dream after a very realistic nightmare, scratching your back and speaking in soothing tones to ground you in reality.
In reality, I’m not in danger.
No need for fight or flight.
It’s simply a VERY public proposal. A moment I’d prefer to be private, not acted out in front of thousands of strangers.
Okay—maybe I should have stuck to thinking about the brain science stuff.
