Page 126 of My Pucked Up Enemy

"You. The team. This feeling like I belong to something tangible, not just some league memo." I pause. "But it scared me to choose uncertainty. To choose feelings. You could walk away. The team could change. But I stayed. Because this…," I press my palm to his chest, "this is worth the risk."

He’s silent for a second, takes a sip of his coffee, then says, "I’m scared too, Nina. Not of what we are, but how much I want it. I’ve never had this feeling, not with anyone. And now I don’t want to imagine anything without you."

I lift my head, searching his face. He’s not grinning. He’s raw, vulnerable, steady.

"You’re my person," he says quietly. "You’ve been that since the day you walked into the locker room and put James in his place."

Tears blur my vision, but I laugh through them. "Yeah? Well, you’ve been mine since you kept trying to read me and failed miserably."

We kiss again, softer this time, and very confirming.

***

In the afternoon, I head to the facility. It’s quiet, just me and a few players who asked for a private mental reset before the final push.

First is Connor. We sit on the edge of the therapy room floor, legs stretched out, tossing a tennis ball back and forth as we talk visualization. He opens up about pre-game nerves, about the weight of fan expectations.

"It’s not fear," he says. "It’s just… noise. I need to find the quiet."

"Then that’s your cue," I tell him. "Your phrase. When the noise comes in, you remind yourself: I choose focus. I choose fire."

He repeats it. Says it again. Nods. I see it land. Tossing the ball solidifies the mantra.

Next is Mikey, who comes in joking but gets serious fast.

"I pretend I don’t care what people think," he admits. "But I do. Too much. I’m scared to screw it up."

"So name it," I tell him. "Say the fear out loud, then beat it with a stronger truth."

He nods. Breathes. "I’m scared I’ll blow it."

"And what’s the truth?"

He grins faintly. "That I’ve trained for this. That I’m ready."

"Yes! And what’s your refocus move if you feel yourself slipping mid-game?"

He hesitates, then shrugs. "I don’t know. Breathe and… try not to panic?"

I smile gently and grab a whiteboard marker, jotting down a quick diagram. "Try this. Finger tap. Thigh, shoulder, shoulder, exhale. You don’t have to reset the world. Just reset your nervous system."

He watches, then mirrors the movement. "Like a pattern interrupt."

"Exactly. Physical cue for mental clarity."

He nods again, more serious now. "Thanks, Doc, really."

"Go crush it, Mikey."

He leaves, this time not just taller, but anchored.

I sit there after they’re gone, looking around the quiet space. My space. My team. My purpose.

We’re not promised happy endings. But we are promised chances.

And I’m taking mine.

***

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