Page 121 of My Pucked Up Enemy

"I'm not trying to make this harder," I say quietly. "If you choose to go, I'll respect it. You deserve to chase whatever future you want. I'm just giving you the truth—what you mean here, and what you mean to me."

She nods, looking down at the ice, then back up at me. "I know."

For a second, it feels like she might say more—might close the gap between us. But then she turns, pushing off again, gliding away toward the far end of the rink.

No answer.

Just the sound of her blades slicing cleanly through the ice as she laps around the rink.

I watch her go, my chest tight, but somehow… I’m at peace.

I gave her my truth.

Now it’s her turn to choose.

***

Game 7. Home ice. Everything's on the line.

The first period is a brawl from the opening faceoff. Bodies crash, sticks snap, and both teams come out like they’ve got something to prove. We strike first. Connor rips a wrister from the left circle, top shelf. Clean, deadly.

Midway through the period, the Rangers tie it up. Their winger, fast as hell, snipes a beauty glove side. I stretch, full extension, and still can’t reach it. I don’t blame myself. It was a perfect shot that was unstoppable. I reset, mentally clearing it like fog on glass.

Late in the first, we capitalize on a power play. Mikey threads a perfect pass from the blue line, and James redirects it with a slick backhand tip right past their goalie. Crowd goes insane. 2–1, Acers on top.

Between the second and third periods, the Zamboni hums across the ice, methodically resurfacing the rink under bright lights. In the locker room, the team is spread out—some downing water, others lost in the zone, still catching their breath.

Coach stands in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, drawing arrows with purpose. "You’ve held the line. But now? Now we take it. Third period—our house, our rules."

Nina’s steps forward when Coach nods to her. "Breathe. Reset. This is where your mental edge matters. You’ve practiced resilience all season. Now it’s time to show it. Trust your instincts. Stick to your systems. And when it gets tough, because it will, use your tools. You’ve got them. Winners don’t avoid pressure. They overcome setbacks faster than anyone else on the ice."

James, still panting lightly, grins at her. “I swear you’re becoming the team’s favorite motivational podcast.”

She smirks. “Good. Because I only give five-star advice. Now hydrate and keep your heads clear. The game’s still ours to win.”

The guys tap sticks on the floor in agreement. Coach finishes the board notes and yells, "Twenty minutes left of play. Stay sharp. This is it."

I sit on the bench, towel draped around my shoulders, heart still thumping. One more period. One more chance. And for now, I’m forcing myself to see her only as the team’s sports psychologist, not the woman who can wreck my focus with a single look. Just the professional. The guide. The reason we’ve come this far.

The third period starts with the puck drop at center ice, the crowd screaming like it’s already overtime. Every pass, every hit, every shift carries the weight of a season. The Rangers are relentless… throwing bodies, jabbing sticks, trying to pivot the momentum back their way.

My heartbeat matches the slap of the puck on sticks. Every whistle is a quick breath. Every faceoff is a war.

They press hard out of the gate, swarming our zone, looking for a breakdown. I stay sharp, reading the puck like it’s lit up with neon signs. I see their winger trying to sneak through the slot. I cut the angle, challenge the shot, and absorb the pressure.

We're holding. But it’s not luck, it’s true grit. Focus. Controlled fire. And I’m the firewall.

I don’t think about the noise, or the pressure of what’s at stake. I think about the next stop. The next shift. The next second.

Because that’s how champions play.

I’m in the zone. Locked in. No thinking, just performing.

There’s a breakaway. Their top scorer barrels toward me, fakes left, then tries to roof it glove side. I snatch it out of the air like it’s nothing.

The building explodes into a thunderstorm of sound—horns blaring, fans on their feet, fists pumping like they just witnessed a miracle.

I don’t celebrate. I don’t need to. The boys know. We’re not letting this slip.

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