Page 11 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“That machine ate my protein bar,” I mutter.

James grins. “You still brought it flowers the next day.”

I pause at the door, turn, and raise my shaker like I’m making a toast. “I’ll let her know she’s walking into a locker room full of unresolved trauma, ego bruises, and a disturbing number of mommy issues.”

“Maybe she’ll bring us stickers,” Ethan says.

James snorts. “Tell her we’re all emotionally mature and totally fine, except for the part where we confuse trash talk with intimacy.”

Parker chuckles. “Yeah, and maybe let her know Ethan’s idea of vulnerability is watching a sad movie without sunglasses.”

“Hey,” Ethan says, mock offended. “I teared up once during Rudy and you people never let it go.”

I grin. “You'll get a gold star if you make it through one of her sessions without deflecting, joking, or blaming everything on your childhood and poor skate sharpening.”

They’re still laughing when I walk out, not because it’s that funny, but because they’re all glad it’s not them. Yet.

I make my way toward the corridor where the coaches’ offices are. I’ve passed her office a dozen times now. Today, I have to go in.

I knock once. Short. Sharp.

“Come in,” comes the reply, crisp and cool.

I step inside and immediately catalog the space. Clean. Neutral. There’s a little green plant by the window and a framed photo of a guy in fatigues on her desk. Her brother, probably. She’s seated behind her desk, a mug of coffee in her hand and a legal pad in front of her like she’s about to do my taxes.

“Alex,” she says with a nod. “Nice of you to stop by.”

“Didn’t realize I had a choice.” I shut the door behind me but don’t sit.

“You don’t,” she says evenly. “But you do have control over what we talk about. You can sit, or stand and glare. Either way, we’ve got fifty minutes.”

She’s good. Calm. Collected. Her voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t snap. I hate how grounded she seems. Like nothing I do could throw her off.

I lower myself into the chair. Slowly. Like I’m doing her a favor.

She watches me for a second, then flips open her pad.

“Alright. Let’s start with something simple. How’s your sleep?”

I scoff. “What is this, a mattress commercial?”

“Consider it a baseline question.”

“I get enough.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Fine. Restless some nights. Better after wins. Worse after crap like last night.”

She nods and jots something down. “Nightmares?”

I nod head. “Wow. You just dive right in, huh?”

“I find ripping off the Band-Aid works better than tiptoeing around denial.”

“Or maybe you just like playing shrink with sharp objects.”

Her lips twitch, almost like she’s suppressing a smile. “Says the guy who’s dodged three session requests and nearly bit Parker’s head off last week.”

---