Page 45 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
I was struck by her perception. Most people fed me platitudesabout staying positive or assured me I’d be back in no time. Kate somehow understood the weight of it.
“What got you interested in sports medicine applications?” I asked, shifting the focus back to her.
She gathered a few papers, organizing them into a stack. “My undergrad roommate was a collegiate soccer player. Tore her ACL and never fully recovered. I watched how it affected her—not just physically, but mentally.”
“The mental part is what people don’t get,” I found myself saying. “Everyone focuses on the physical recovery, but the psychological toll is just as challenging.”
Kate nodded vigorously. “Exactly! It changes how you see yourself, your future. For athletes, it’s an identity crisis.”
Our eyes met, and I felt an unexpected connection. Despite our different worlds, she understood something fundamental about my experience that most didn’t.
“The constant question of ‘will I ever be the same again,’” I added, voicing what had been haunting me for months.
“And the fear of that answer being ‘no,’” she finished softly.
A silence fell between us, not uncomfortable but weighted with mutual understanding.
“Well,” she finally said, a mischievous smile forming. “I guess we’ve both joined the ‘existential crisis’ club.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Is there a membership card?”
“Nope, just crippling anxiety and occasional bouts of imposter syndrome,” she quipped, gathering more papers.
“Speak for yourself,” I replied with mock arrogance. “My anxiety is perfectly controlled, thank you very much.”
Kate snorted. “Says the man who alphabetizes his spice rack.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s pathological,” she countered, but her smile took any sting out of the words.
I started helping Kate gather her scattered research, careful not to disrupt whatever organizational system she had going.
“So,” she said casually, “what made you so disciplined? You’re like the human embodiment of structure and routine.”
I paused, not used to discussing my personal life. But something about Kate’s direct question made me want to answer honestly.
“My father,” I admitted. “He was a hockey coach. Made me practice twice as hard as anyone else, expected twice the results.”
“Sounds intense.”
“He believed success came from discipline and routine. No exceptions.” I stacked a pile of papers, aligning their edges perfectly without thinking. “When I was ten, I missed a goal in a youth tournament, and he made me practice shots for hours in the backyard rink.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “That’s not discipline, that’s borderline abuse.”
I shrugged. “It was normal to me. And it worked—I got better, faster, stronger than my peers.”
“At what cost?” she asked softly.
The question caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me that before.
“I made it to the NHL,” I said, as if that answered everything.
“And you’re also the guy who can’t handle finding a coffee mug out of place,” she pointed out, but her tone was gentle. “Don’t get me wrong—your discipline is impressive. But there’s a difference between structure and rigidity.”
I felt a flicker of defensiveness, then recognized the truth in her words. “What about you? Where does all this chaotic energy come from?”
Kate leaned back against the couch, her shoulder brushing mine. “Academic parents. Two professors who treated me more like a research project than a kid. My success was measured in grades, test scores, academic competitions.”
