Page 14 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Another pause, giving me space. Her tone softens just a hair.

“Look,” she says, “I get it. This isn’t your thing. But something’s off, and it’s costing you. Not just in the net. I see it in how you move, how you speak to the team, how you walk out of every room like you can’t get far enough away fast enough.”

That last part hits harder than I want it to.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” she adds. “But I am trying to get through to it.”

I stare at her. “And if I don’t want that?”

“Then we’ll keep having these little chats until you do. Because this isn’t just about you, it’s about the team too.”

I should be mad. Hell, I am mad. But I’m also… intrigued. She doesn’t backpedal. Doesn’t apologize. And somewhere beneath that clinical calm is a fire I didn’t expect.

I stand up. “Session over?”

“For now.”

I nod once and head for the door. But before I leave, I glance back.

“You ever think maybe I’m not your kind of project?”

She doesn’t even look up from her notes. “You’re not a project. You’re a person. One I’d really like to see stop carrying all of this alone.”

I grip the doorknob. My throat feels tight.

She finally meets my eyes again. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

I don’t answer. I just walk out.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if I won that round, or lost the last bit of distance I’ve always kept between myself and anyone who sees too much.

Chapter five

Nina

"Okay,Ineeddetails.I want the emotional damage report and the facial hair situation. Please don’t hold back."

Patty doesn’t even wait for me to sit before launching in. She slides a craft cocktail across the table toward me with all the drama of someone delivering a sacred elixir.

"Hi, it’s good to see you too," I say, grinning as I shrug out of my coat.

"You moved back to Detroit and took a job babysitting full-grown hockey players, Nina. You don’t get small talk."

I take a sip of the drink. Bourbon, blood orange, something smoky. It’s perfect. "It’s not babysitting."

"It is when they chirp like frat boys and punch walls instead of talking about their feelings."

"Okay, a little babysitting," I admit.

Patty gives me a look. "So, how’s working with a pack of alpha egotistical NHL dudes?"

I sit back in the booth and sigh. "Some of them are repressed. The rest are just loud about it."

Patty barks a laugh. "God, I missed you, bestie."

The bar is warm, the lighting low and gold. A soft jazz trio plays near the back wall. I’m in jeans, a gray sweater, and boots, my hair down for the first time in days. It feels good to be out of the blazer-and-steel exterior I wear around the team. Here, I’m just Nina. Just a woman grabbing drinks with a friend who knows the unpolished version of me.

We catch up on logistics. She’s still at the same nonprofit, still living in her loft apartment with too many plants and one opinionated cat. I tell her about the small condo I just rented ten minutes from the rink, and that I’ve been busy but not overwhelmed. Not yet, anyway.

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