FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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A year and a half later
THE LIGHTS IN THE ARENA make me feel like I'm in a giant fish bowl, but the cheering of the crowd never gets old.
"This game is ours," I say as I pass one of my teammates, James—he lost a couple teeth last week, but he's recovering all right.
Everyone has their game face on: hardened and serious, focused on the puck. We skate across the ice in a kind of synergy I've never had with any team before.
Just a few months ago, we were strangers. Now, these guys are my brothers.
It's hard to believe a year ago I was still in some hospital in Godfrey, and now I'm playing at the Bell Center in Montreal. It's only a seven-hour drive from my hometown, but last week I was in Chicago, and next week I'll be in Los Angeles, so yeah, things have been hectic. The hotels, the practices, the friends—I think I was always prepared for how intense training would be, but I didn't expect to be having this much fun.
As my skates glide across the ice, I dodge our opponents—the Canadiens—and join my teammates, the Godfrey Northern Lights, who scooped me up real fast during the draft. Despite everything that happened last year, I managed to be a top pick, and of course I went with my home team (we kick ass, anyway). They called me 'the hockey prodigy with bipolar disorder.' Because I sort of came out with it on social media after I got out of the hospital. I was done hiding who I really am.
And the response was surprisingly positive.
People understood. They commended me for being honest, for being 'brave,' even though I don't think it's brave at all—I just didn't want to hide anymore. I never knew how freeing it would be to just be me.
Now, I play with confidence, and my teammates like me because I help us win games, and I'm on the right kinds of pills to keep me levelled. There'll always be low days, but I'm learning to live with them now. And this day happens to be very, very high, because the score is 4-1 with us in the lead.
I snipe the puck from a Montreal player and swoop it toward the goal. I shoot. I score. The buzzer goes off. Our goal horn blows. The crowd goes wild.
We won.
My teammates swarm me. We're all sweaty, raising our sticks, laughing and borderline crying as we congratulate each other.
James pats my helmet with his gloves. "This is a hell of a way for our season to start off—two fucking wins in a row! You're our good luck charm, Wexler."
"Thanks, man. I tried."
"Keep doing whatever you're doing!"
Over the blinding lights, I stare out into the crowd of twenty-thousand people. A group of fans hold up a giant flag with our team's name across it, but I'm looking for my family, who stand in the front row, jumping up and down. Ollie holds up Ana, who got absolutely huge in the past year, and waves at me. Charlotte stands with Mom and Dad, looking even better than the last time I saw her: like a healthy teenage girl with meat on her bones. It was a long year of rehab for Charlotte, and I'd argue she had a tougher time recovering than me, but she turned out okay—still moody, but hey, she's barely seventeen. I'm just happy to see her smiling again.
