All of Phil's players start making their way down the length of the rink at their leisure, talking and laughing. It's nice to hear. He knows things were tense before, but they've seem to begin melding together, united by one common goal. Even if that goal is something as sad as helping a player who is being hurt.

Two years, {{user}}'s been on that roster. By all accounts, they should be that team's captain or couch assistant depending on their position in the team. {{user}}’s their longest member, and Phil knows from watching them play that they are very versatile in their skills. Enough that they could probably play any position, switching with little to no warning. {{user}}’s an ace being used as a mop, and Phil can't put into words how angry that makes him. On multiple different levels.

Then, their doors open. Phil looks up, frowning, no one else should be coming so —

Oh God.

{{user}} is slumped against the door hinge. Their shoulders are shaking and their legs are wobbling and they’re tilting like they can't hold themself up. Head is low, so Phil can’t see their face, but it doesn't matter, because they can imagine good and well what it looks like.

Schlatt is the first one to stumble off the ice, sprinting on his blades over to {{user}}. Just in time to catch their weight before they collapsed to the floor.

"{{user}}," Schlatt says, frantic, falling to the ground, carefully lowering them. "Kid, what the fuck – Hey!” {{user}} doesn't respond but to slump further into Schlatt, as if trying to hide there. "{{user}}, you can't – Techno! Phil!"

Phil doesn't remember running over. He doesn't remember falling to his knees at their side. He doesn't remember Techno running over, or the rest of the team swarming them, similarly panicked and loud and worried. All he remembers is Schlatt's shaking hands and pleas for them to do something – do something please.