Page 3 of Don't Look Down

Said no professional hockey player ever.

Luckily, for this series of games, we’d only needed one flight into Arizona and our return flight home. We’d taken a charter bus between games since they’d all been reasonably close to each other geographically. That’s a miracle that will probably never happen again.

It’s also a miracle I haven’t had a heart attack yet. If not for the pure exhaustion of those weeks away, I wouldn’t survive this.

You’d think I’d be more comfortable since we’re on a charter flight and our entire crew, including pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendants, remains the same, but you’d be wrong. You’d also be wrong in expecting me to be desensitized to my phobia after these last few years in the NHL.

So, so very wrong.

We hit another pocket of air, and my stomach drops right out of my ass.

Seriously. It’s gone. I felt that shit leave my body. You know the feeling. Who needs a stomach anyway?

I think it fell out somewhere over Louisiana. Or maybe the ocean, since I have no clue where we are right now, aside from being between San Jose and Florida. And if it’s not home, then Idon't want to know. Wherever we are is still too far away. My feet need to be on land. As soon as possible.

Trying to pull myself out of this, I open my eyes briefly to squint at the screen in front of me. There’s a random movie playing that I’d put on earlier in a distraction attempt. It’s failing, though, because my earbuds aren’t even in my ears. But I’d had to try something.

You know that little map that shows the plane en route? Well, that shit had to go. It was taunting me with how much longer we still had before arriving at our destination. The countdown made me want to crawl out of my skin.

I can barely bring myself to look at that thing. Just seeing that plane trailing across the screen with our altitude reminds me even more of the fact that I’m currently sitting in an actual death trap with wings.

If only I could have this career minus the flying. It sucks beyond words because I can’t think of a better career. This is it for me. It’s what I was born to do. And I’ll play hockey for as long as I possibly can.

From the time I watched that first game with Pops over twenty years ago, I knew hockey was the end goal for me. I couldn’t explain the feeling that had circulated through my body when my grandfather and I sat together in that icy arena. The sense of belonging. Of rightness. Like a lost puzzle piece slotting right into place, I’d found where I belonged.

I’d listened to the cheers of the fans, inhaled the smell of the arena, and listened to the sound of skates slicing across ice and the stick hitting the puck.

Pure. Magic.

Music to my ears. The soundtrack to my life.

At that moment, I knew I was home.

And I’ve never left.

Pops and my mom made my dream come true. They busted ass to make this happen for me. There’s a reason why hockey is known as a rich man’s sport. It’s expensive as shit, but I never felt like my dreams were a burden to them. Just a joint goal.

And now, being the one on the ice who everyone is cheering for? It’s a rush like no other. A feeling that’s completely unmatched. Almost electric. Or magnetic. I can’t fully explain it.

And so, I try my best to push through the fear, flight after torturous flight.

“C’mon, Spencer. Breathe, buddy. You’re about to hyperventilate,” my teammate and friend, Lucas Leighton, says from beside me. He’s the perfect seat mate since he loves the window seat, while I loathe it. Because fucking duh. He always keeps all of the windows down, except for one that he periodically opens and closes to check out the view. He’s completely unbothered by the whole in-the-clouds-a-million-miles-above-the-earth thing. He actually enjoys it.

I don’t know how we’re friends.

But he gets me. He gives me the space to work through the anxiety my phobia causes. His heart is huge, and he wears it right there on his sleeve for anyone in need.

We’ve been on this team together for the last four seasons, so he feels more like family at this point. He’s truly one of the best guys I know.

Vaguely, I notice that he’s gently jostling my shoulder. Who knows how long he’s been trying to draw me out of my spiraling. My hands are tingling, and I am deep into fight-or-flight mode here. With no means of fleeing.

Fuck.

“Only another forty-five minutes till we’re home, buddy. Now talk to me, Spence. Tell me what your plans are when we’re back. Got anything lined up? You gonna see Savannah? Or is she out at a shoot?”

I tilt my head a little to the left and crack that eye open to glance at him, eyes and forehead full on scrunched with incredulity as I grit out between my teeth, “We’re actively falling out of the sky in a giant tin can and you want small talk, Leigh? Really? Our plane is about to go down in a blaze of glory, never to be seen again, and this is what you want to chat about? Maybe we should order some tea to go with? The world will mourn the Bull Sharks who perished as one.”

His eyes roll. “Oh my God, drama queen, bro. Stop it. We’re not falling, and we won’t crash. Youknowthis. Listen to that, admittedly tiny, rational part of your brain.” He shakes my shoulder again for good measure, and I notice his own movie is paused and both of his earbuds are out. His body is angled toward me, with all of his focus centered on me. He’s such a good dude. “Now, talk to me. About anything. The distraction technique will only work if you let it. Sooooo, just go with it.”

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