A year and a half later

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 Ottawa Senators, who scooped me up real fast during the draft. Despite everything that happened last year, I managed to be a top pick. 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.

Someone from behind them, leaving the bleachers, catches my eye. A brunette wearing a plaid shirt. Hope leaps in my heart as the girl scurries up the aisle and disappears into the crowd, and then the moment is gone. I come back to Earth.

What I've learned in the past year and a half is that when you lose someone you love, your mind sort of looks for them everywhere. For a while there, all brunettes looked like Lucy.

It probably wasn't her, but I'd be lying if I said I don't sometimes (okay, all the time) wish it would be. I like to think she watches my games, and looks over me somehow, and is proud I turned out okay. Because I'm incredibly proud of her. Lucy launched her own charity and homeless shelter in Godfrey earlier this year. I hadn't heard anything about her before then, but as soon as The Safe Way Home Foundation came out, I knew she was behind it. So I donated a buttload of money anonymously and sent even more once I got into the NHL. She doesn't need to know it's coming from me, but if I'm getting all this cash, the least I can do is help Lucy and other kids who grew up like her.

The team and I head to the locker room to get out of our insanely sweaty gear. I dig into my bag for my phone, which is already full of messages from Mom saying I did amazing. She knows it'll be hard to get to me for a bit, but I'm planning on ditching the guys later to meet up with the family at their hotel.

As I chug back water and sit on a bench, my teammates' boisterous voices around me, I check my Instagram. An account followed me.

The Safe Way Home's official profile.

A smile plasters my face. I can't believe it. Looks like I wasn't as sneaky as I thought I was, or Lucy is just too smart. Of course she figured out it was me who donated, but I'm still surprised by the follow.

I wonder if I should message, or if the page will message me. I mean, it might not even be Lucy running it—she was always clueless about social media, but it makes me feel a little bit closer to her, even if there's so much space between us now.

I'm still grinning like an idiot when my teammates tell me to hurry up and get ready before they eat all the pizza. I get up to join them, but before I tuck my phone away, I glance at the screen, at the notification from Lucy.

There're so many things I've wanted to tell her since we last met. Like: I turned out okay, Luce. You saved my life. If we hadn't gone through what we did, maybe I never would've gotten the help I needed, and maybe the NHL would've been a pipe dream, and I wouldn't be here, right where I belong.

But I am. And Lucy's where she needs to be, too. I guess that means all the pieces are in place; things work out the way they're supposed to in the end. But this follow—as lame as it sounds—feels like a fresh start.

So I follow back before I catch up with my team. There's no point in obsessing over this, or driving myself nuts wondering what'll happen next.

If it's meant to be, it'll be.