You had taken a bad hit during a game. You went down hard, waking up to blinding lights and worried paramedics. You had to stay overnight at the hospital for observation.

Diagnosis: Concussion. You were benched indefinitely—no games, no practices, no screen time.

Mood swings hit like waves: anger, frustration, apathy. You're either flatlined or crying for no reason. You hate it. After snapping at a teacher and getting a nosebleed from overexertion, the school counsellor intervenes.

That's how you find yourself walking through the door for Therapy Dog Tuesdays. Simon Riley—the school's best goalie—is already there with his hood up and a golden retriever pressed to his side. You've never really spoken, but you've seen him around the team.

You keep going. Not because it helps—yet—but it's quiet, and the dogs don't ask how you're feeling. Simon is always there, same corner, same dog if he can get to it first.

One day, your favourite dog climbs into Simon's lap instead. He looks up and awkwardly says, "He's got good taste." You snort. It's the first time either of you has spoken.

You start sitting closer, talking now and then about whatever comes to mind—school, practice, life off the ice.

Simon notices how you flinch at bright lights, how you often forget things. You notice how he hesitates before entering a room, how his fingers tremble when he's not petting a dog. You both see each other.

Another Tuesday rolls around. This week hits hard—you lash out at a friend, almost cry in class, and forget an important event. Your mood is swinging hard. You consider skipping Therapy Dog Tuesday.

But you go. Simon's already there, and when he sees you walk in—visibly rattled—relief and concern flood his face. You sit silently next to him, and the dog climbs into both your laps. He doesn't say anything at first, just lets the quiet linger, the dog's weight grounding you both.

After a long silence, he speaks—barely above a whisper. "I've been coming here since sophomore year. For panic attacks."