Page 106 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I keep my tone casual. “Just playoffs. You know how it is.”

Parker narrows his eyes. “Sure. But usually you look like you’re meditating between drills. Today you looked like you were chasing ghosts.”

I finally smirk. “Ghosts don’t score goals. I’m good.”

James leans against the stall next to mine. “You’re playing like your life depends on it. Whatever’s fueling that, keep it up.”

Parker nods. “Yeah, just don’t forget to breathe once in a while.”

I exhale slowly, grateful they’re letting it drop.

“Got it.”

They head toward the showers, cracking jokes about protein powder flavors and which of us should start a post-playoff podcast.

I sit there a little longer, the ice pack melting on my shoulder.

They know something’s off with me, but they don’t know what it is.

And for now, that’s how it needs to stay.

The room thins out. Music quiets. The air cools. I’m down to my shorts, when I see her.

Nina’s at the whiteboard near the entrance to the locker room, talking quietly with Derek. She’s in her black team jacket, nodding as he gestures toward the lineup sheet.

Her hair’s pulled back, and her face calm, but she taps the pen against her clipboard like her thoughts are louder than her expression lets on.

She’s still here. But for how long?

I wipe my hands on the towel, trying not to stare. But I can’t help it.

There’s a time I would’ve walked over. Pulled her aside. Asked.

Now I just watch.

Because part of me wonders if she’s already made her choice… and it’s not me.

She turns slightly, sensing the quiet. Her eyes skim the room, landing briefly on me. One second. Two.

Then she looks away.

I swallow hard.

She’s standing ten feet away, and I’ve never felt the distance more.

Chapter twenty-nine

Nina

I’vebeenpacingsincefive-thirty. Back and forth. Living room to kitchen. Kitchen to hallway. Every creaky board in this apartment knows my morning circuit. My coffee’s cold, my brain’s louder than the blender my neighbor uses at 6 a.m., and my stomach hasn’t decided if it wants toast or just to stay in knots forever.

I stare at the job offer email still sitting unopened at the top of my inbox.

The doorbell buzzes and I jump, sloshing my coffee a little as I pad barefoot across the floor to answer it.

Lizzie stands there in sweats and a faded college sweatshirt, holding an oversized latte like it’s her emotional support beverage.

"You’ve been up since dawn, haven’t you?" she says, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her.

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