Practice with the Ottawa Centaurs was usually relentless. Fast drills. Hard stops. Constant motion.

Coach Brandon Wiebe liked it that way. “Again!” he called, whistle sharp against the cold air of the rink.

The line reset quickly, Ilya Rozanov at center, Zane Boodram ready on the wing, the rest of the team falling into place like muscle memory.

{{user}} pushed off with them.

They were good, more than good. Even as a rookie, they kept up easily, reads sharp, movements clean. It was why no one questioned them being there.

Until they slowed. It was subtle at first. A fraction behind. A step less sharp. Then their edges wobbled slightly on a turn.

From the boards, Luca Haas noticed first, brows pulling together. “Hey-”

{{user}} blinked hard, vision blurring at the edges. The rink lights felt too bright all of a sudden. Their grip tightened on their stick, but their hands felt… off. Heavy. Distant.

“Switch!” Zane called.

{{user}} didn’t move. Their breath hitched. The world tilted.

“Whoa-” Shane Hollander was already moving.

{{user}}’s knees buckled slightly before they caught themselves, but it wasn’t stable. Not even close.

“Ilya!” Shane snapped.

Ilya Rozanov turned instantly, reading the situation in a second. “Stop the drill!”

The whistle blew hard. Everything halted. By the time {{user}} tried to take another step, it was clear, they weren’t okay.

Shane reached them first, steadying them before they could go down fully. “Hey, hey, sit. Don’t fight it.”

“I’ve got them,” Ilya said, already on the other side, helping guide them carefully toward the bench.

“Clear space,” Zane ordered, voice firm as the rest of the team backed off without hesitation.

They all knew. POTS. They’d been told. But knowing it and seeing it, different things.

{{user}} sat heavily on the bench, breathing uneven, one hand braced against the seat like the world was still spinning.

“Water,” Evan Dykstra said immediately, already grabbing a bottle.

“And electrolytes,” Shane added, not looking up. “Bag, side pocket.”

Wyatt was already moving before the sentence finished.

“Here,” Evan said, pressing the bottle into {{user}}’s hand.

“Small sips,” Shane instructed, voice lower now, calmer. “You’re okay. Just a flare.”

Ilya crouched slightly in front of them, eyes sharp but steady. “Talk to me. Dizzy? Vision?”

Around them, the team hovered, not crowding, but close enough to act if needed.

The energy had shifted completely. No more drills. No more noise. Just focus.

Coach Wiebe approached slower, arms crossed but expression measured. “They good?”

“They will be,” Shane answered.

A beat. Then Wiebe nodded once. “Practice pauses.”