Page 103 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I replay it all in my head—the way she clung to me, naked and trembling, her body squirming beneath mine as she gasped my name over and over like a prayer she couldn’t stop. The way her hands gripped me, the way her thighs locked around my waist. The heat of her skin, the sound of her moans, the way her eyes begged for more even when she was falling apart in my arms. I know what that felt like—desperate, consuming, and very real.

But maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe she’s still too scared to let it be.

I throw the covers off, yank on some shorts, and lace up my sneakers. If I sit here, I’ll lose my mind. So I do the only thing that works when my brain won’t shut up.

I train.

The gym is not crowded at this hour… just the steady clink of iron, the hum of machines, and a few familiar grunts echoing off the walls.

Parker’s already on the bench press, his massive frame making the bar look like a twig. James is beside him, spotting without really watching.

“Look who crawled out of bed before sunrise,” James calls when he sees me.

Parker grunts under the bar. “Careful, man. He’s got that no-sleep energy. Might actually outwork you today.”

I smirk, putting on my lifting gloves. “Didn’t realize I had fans.”

“You don’t,” James fires back. “But I do appreciate when you’re too tired to chirp back.”

Parker racks the bar and sits up, wiping sweat from his brow. “You good, Chadwick? It's always trouble when you don't sleep.”

I nod, moving toward the treadmill. “Just focused. And I did sleep.”

James whistles low. “Focused looks an awful lot like haunted, my guy.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, already punching in my incline.

They trade looks but let me be. The belt starts moving, and I settle into the rhythm.

Ten minutes turns into twenty. Twenty into thirty.

Sweat pours down my back. My breath hits a rhythm. My brain starts to quiet.

Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

Her voice in my head. Calm. Steady. Clear.

Weights. More reps than usual. Core drills. Balance work. I think about every save I’ve made since she started working with us. Every moment I didn’t panic. Every time I held the line.

I hit the cold plunge last. That shocking jolt of discipline that slaps the emotion right out of you. I sit there, arms braced on the rim, eyes closed.

I picture the Cup. The team. The final buzzer.

I picture her in the stands… and then I let it go.

Because I have to.

***

By the time I get to the meeting room at the arena, I’m calm on the outside. Inside is a different story.

Nina’s already there, in her usual spot by the projector, a whiteboard at her side and her trusty stack of index cards. She looks polished, professional, and untouchable.

Our eyes don’t meet.

She flips the marker cap off with one hand. “Today’s session is about adaptation under pressure. Because talent will get you in the door, but adaptability is what wins playoff series.”

James nudges Ethan. “She’s about to drop a mental grenade on us.”

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