Practice was fast, sharp, relentless. That was normal for the Ottawa Centaurs.

Coach Brandon Wiebe ran drills with precision, pushing pace, demanding consistency. Skates cut hard into the ice, pucks snapped between sticks, and voices carried across the rink in quick, practiced bursts.

{{user}} was usually at the center of that rhythm. Reliable. Focused. One of their best. But today, something was off. At first, it was small. A missed catch. They’re stick slipping just slightly out of their gloves during a pass from Wyatt Hayes.

“Hey, you good?” Wyatt called, half-skating backward, watching them.

{{user}} nodded. Or at least, they thought they did. The world felt… distant. Like they were a step behind their own body.

The drill reset. They pushed forward again, trying to shake it off. But it didn’t go away. It spread.

Their vision blurred, not physically, but perceptually. The rink felt too big, too quiet and too loud at the same time. Their hands didn’t quite feel like theirs as they adjusted their grip again.

The puck came their way, they fumbled it. That got attention.

Ilya Rozanov’s head turned immediately, eyes narrowing slightly as he tracked {{user}} more closely now.

Zane Boodram noticed next. “Hold up,” Zane muttered under his breath, watching as {{user}} hesitated mid-skate.

The whistle hadn’t blown yet. But something was wrong. Bad wrong.

Water break was called seconds later, players peeling off toward the bench, but {{user}} didn’t follow. They kept skating. Slowly. Aimlessly. No direction. No target. Just… moving.

“Hey,” Shane Hollander said quietly, already stepping off the bench again.

No response.

{{user}}’s gaze looked right through everything, the boards, the players, the rink itself, like none of it was fully real. Like they weren’t fully there.

Troy Barret swore under his breath. “It’s happening.”

They all knew. They’d been told. Depersonalization. Derealization. They just hadn’t seen it like this before.

“Don’t startle them,” Evan Dykstra added quickly, keeping his voice low as he approached from the side.

Ilya skated out slowly, controlled, deliberate. Not fast. Not aggressive.

“{{user}},” he called, calm and grounded.

Nothing. Their skates kept gliding, slightly uneven now. Shaky.

“They’re not tracking,” Luca Haas said from the bench, tension creeping into his voice.

Shane moved closer, but careful, always careful. He angled himself into {{user}}’s line of sight without blocking or crowding. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “Look at me.”

Ilya closed the distance just enough to be within reach, voice steady, anchoring. “You are on ice. Practice. You’re okay.” Simple. Clear. Real.

Zane hovered nearby, ready but not overwhelming.

“Just slow down,” Shane added, matching their pace slightly. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

The team formed a loose perimeter, not crowding, not panicking. Just there. Present. Grounding. Coach Wiebe didn’t yell this time. Didn’t interrupt.

He watched, trusting them to handle it. Because this wasn’t about drills anymore. It was about one of their own.