Page 115 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“They gave me the full pitch. Bigger staff. Larger budget. Travel. Prestige. All the boxes.”

“But?” he asks, already hearing it in my voice.

“But I’d be in charge of process, not people. Policies and playbooks. The real work—the on-the-ground, one-on-one, locker-room magic? I’d be delegating that.”

He hums. “Sounds like a good job… for someone else.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “They even offered to fast-track my role to VP in two years. Called me a rising star.”

“Rising stars burn out if they’re in the wrong orbit.”

We sit there, watching the team cycle into scrimmage drills. The clatter of sticks and the bark of Coach Max from the bench is like soothing music.

“What does legacy mean to you?” I ask suddenly.

Derek exhales slowly. “Legacy? It’s not the title you leave behind. It’s the people who whisper your name when you’re not in the room. Not because you were in charge, but because you made them better.”

I swallow.

He leans forward. “Titles don’t make legacies. People do. And sometimes, the biggest work doesn’t come with a plaque.”

I nod, blinking hard.

Derek shifts, glancing sideways at me. "For what it’s worth… I want you to stay. Management loves what you’ve done here. Shit, the guys would probably riot if you left." He nods out at the ice and then toward me again. "But this is a big opportunity, Nina. I get that. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you passed up something you’ve worked your whole life for."

Out on the ice, Alex makes a spectacular diving save. The guys cheer. He doesn’t even glance up.

“He’s been laser-focused since Game 5,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He’s trying not to break.”

By the time practice ends, I’ve made it back down to the hallway near the locker rooms. I’m gathering my things from the staff table—my notebook, the stat sheets I was half-heartedly reviewing earlier—when I hear footsteps.

Alex.

He’s fresh out of the showers, damp hair curling at the ends, towel slung around his neck, jersey swapped for a simple black T-shirt. His eyes find mine for a second, and he nods.

It’s polite. Painfully polite.

I smile, tight. “You looked sharp out there.”

“Just keeping my edge,” he says, his voice neutral.

A pause of silence.

He shifts like he might say something more, but he doesn’t. Just gives me one more nod and turns down the hall.

My mouth opens.

“Alex—”

He stops, turning slowly. His eyes lock on mine, searching.

“Yeah?”

I swallow. My fingers twist around the strap of my bag.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I just wanted to say…this is hard.”

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