Page 105 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I glance at Nina. Just once.

“You’ve done harder things.”

Nina flinches. Barely. But I catch it.

She turns quickly back to the board. “Exactly. It’s not about perfection. It’s about refocusing. No one plays mistake-free. Champions recover faster.”

She wraps up the session with a brief rundown of our playoff prep. The energy in the room’s lifted and now the guys are joking around again.

But I sit there, silent.

Because her words steadied me… even when she wouldn’t look me in the eye.

Even if she’s gone next week… she changed me.

And I’m not going back.

***

We hit the ice not long after.

Full-ice scrimmage. The kind where no one’s taking it easy—not even close. There’s chirping, bodies colliding, sticks slashing a little too loud against the boards. It feels like a real game.

Coach whistles us into a faceoff drill, then backs up to watch. I drop into position, pads heavy but brain sharp.

Ethan skates by and taps my blocker. “Hope you brought your A-game, pretty boy.”

I grunt. “Hope you brought a helmet that can handle regret.”

The puck drops. I track it like it owes me money.

My reflexes are dialed. Every glove save slams shut like thunder. Every rebound I swat away with precision. I don’t hear the guys yelling. I just hear my breath. My skates. My rhythm.

At one point, James cuts through the crease and slings a shot top shelf. I snatch it clean and hold it.

He circles back, tapping his stick against my pads. “Your head still in the game, Loverboy?”

Parker elbows him as he skates by. “He’s dialed in. Leave him be.”

Coach blows the whistle. “Whatever Chadwick’s doing—bottle it.”

The guys laugh, but I don’t even smile.

Because I’m holding on by the edge of my blade.

Every shot I stop is one more second not spent wondering if she’s going. Every block is a wall between me and the question I can’t shake:Is she already slipping away?

We skate hard. Transition drills. Power play reps. The team’s in sync today, but no one pushes harder than I do. I take every crease battle like it’s Game 7. Every drill like it’s the final play.

The whistle blows to end practice. I finally drop to one knee, catching my breath, chest burning. Sweat soaks my jersey, but my mind is still racing.

In the locker room, it’s the usual chaos. Pads hitting the floor, towels snapping, protein shakes cracking open. I peel off my gear in silence.

Parker tosses a water bottle onto the bench beside me. “You’re grinding harder than usual.”

I shrug, icing my shoulder. “Just getting ready.”

James walks by, towel slung around his neck. “You’re skating like you’ve got something to prove. Everything cool?”

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