Chapter 35 Shadows on the Ice
October in Evergreen Hollow carried the familiar bite of coming winter: crisp mornings, leaves turning fiery red and gold, and the rink lights glowing earlier each evening. For the Kane family, it was a season of milestones and quiet challenges.
Lily, now a junior at Denver, had earned a starting spot on the first line and was taking advanced courses in sports management and policy. Everett, ten and fiercely competitive, was dominating his travel team. Clara, four and full of opinions, had started kindergarten and declared herself “the boss of recess.”
But beneath the surface rhythm of school, practices, and Heartstrings’ steady growth, a subtle shadow had begun to settle over Everett.
It started small.
He came home from practice one Tuesday quieter than usual, picking at his dinner instead of recounting every goal and save. When Holly asked what was wrong, he shrugged and said, “Nothing. Just tired.”
Rowan noticed it too. Everett’s usual boundless energy on the ice had dulled; he hesitated on shots he normally snapped without thinking, and after games he retreated to his room instead of celebrating with the team.
At first they chalked it up to a growth spurt or the natural ups and downs of the season. But when Everett missed an easy breakaway in a weekend tournament and sat on the bench with his head down long after the whistle, Rowan pulled him aside.
“Talk to me, bud.”
Everett’s voice was small. “I don’t know. I just… feel heavy. Like I can’t do anything right anymore.”
Rowan’s heart clenched. He recognized the signs—not from his own playing days, but from conversations he’d had with former teammates and from the mental health workshops the NCAA now required for coaches.
That night, after Everett was asleep, Rowan and Holly sat at the kitchen table with cups of tea gone cold.
“He’s struggling,” Rowan said quietly. “It’s more than a slump.”
Holly nodded, eyes worried. “We need to get him help. Gently.”
They started with the school counselor, a kind woman named Mrs. Larson who had worked with many young athletes. She met with Everett twice a week during lunch, using art and games to let him express what words couldn’t yet capture.
At home, they adjusted routines: fewer early-morning practices, more family game nights without scorekeeping, and open conversations about feelings. Lily, home for a long weekend, sat with Everett on the backyard swing and shared her own story.
“Freshman year, I felt the same way sometimes,” she admitted. “Like everyone expected me to be perfect because of Dad and hockey. It’s okay to not be okay. Talking helps.”
Everett listened, eyes wide, then leaned his head on her shoulder.
Clara, sensing the shift without understanding it, became Everett’s tiny shadow—bringing him drawings of stick-figure hockey players with big smiles, crawling into his bed for stories when nightmares woke him.
Holly reached out to the broader community. Heartstrings hosted a free workshop on youth athlete mental health, inviting a sports psychologist who specialized in young competitors. The turnout was overwhelming—parents, coaches, even kids Everett’s age. Rowan spoke briefly about noticing changes in energy and mood, and the importance of listening without judgment.
Slowly, gently, Everett began to climb back.
He started journaling after Mrs. Larson’s suggestion—short entries about good plays and hard days alike. He asked Rowan to skate with him one-on-one, no drills, just passing the puck and talking. He told Holly one night, voice small but steady, “I think the heavy feeling is getting lighter.”
By December, he was laughing again after games, celebrating with his teammates, and sleeping through the night. The counselor reported progress: anxiety tied to performance pressure, common in talented young athletes, but manageable with tools and support.
The family celebrated quietly—no big announcements, just gratitude. They decorated the Christmas tree together, Everett hanging the championship ornament from last year with a proud grin. Clara placed the star on top with Rowan’s help. Lily, home for break, strung extra lights around Everett’s bedroom door “for good dreams.”
One snowy evening, the five of them bundled up and walked to the town rink for public skate. No competition, no pressure—just music over the speakers and colored lights reflecting off the ice.
Everett skated circles around Clara, holding her mittened hands. Lily raced Rowan and let him win by a nose. Holly glided slowly in the middle, watching her family with a heart so full it felt like it might float.
Later, back home with hot chocolate and blankets, Everett looked up from his mug.
“Thanks for helping me,” he said simply. “When it was hard.”
Holly’s eyes filled. Rowan ruffled his hair.
“That’s what families do, bud,” he said. “We carry each other when the ice feels too heavy.”
Outside, snow fell soft and steady, covering the world in quiet white. Inside, the Kane house glowed warm and steady—proof that even shadows on the ice could lift with love, patience, and the courage to ask for help.
In Evergreen Hollow, under a December sky full of stars and the gentle promise of spring to come, the family skated forward—together, always together.