Page 17 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Then I write one word underneath it, all caps, and underlined:

STUDY!

Because this one’s different. Not just guarded—strategic. He doesn’t hide everything out of fear. He hides it because he thinks it’s the only way to survive. And that tells me there’s more to see. More to learn. And maybe... more to lose, too.

Chapter six

Alex

“Coverthegoddamnwing!”I shout, even though I know they can’t hear me through the cage of my helmet.

My heart’s pounding. My legs are tight. Sweat is dripping down my spine like a faucet left on. But I’m locked in.

At least, I’m trying to be.

The puck snaps across the ice again—another blind pass—and I shift into a crouch just in time to deflect a slapshot with the top of my blocker. It ricochets into the corner, but no one clears it.

Figures.

We’re scrambling again. Sloppy, tired, behind the play. Like five guys trying to remember how to play hockey in the middle of a fire drill.

I track the next rush, eyes scanning everything at once—blades carving ice, sticks twitching, sweat dripping down faces that look as fried as I feel.

Focus. Reset. Keep your damn head on straight.

But I can’t shut out the noise tonight.

The fans behind me are grumbling. Some are already booing. It’s a home game and we’re getting steamrolled 4–1.

Someone misses another assignment. The puck sneaks across the crease. I dive. Too late.

Ding.

Red light. Horn.

I stay down for an extra second, face pressed to the ice, chest heaving. I almost wish I can just stay here and not have to get up and face the music.

The roar of the other team’s celebration cuts through me like static.

Then I push up, slam my stick against the post. The sound cracks across the rink. Sharp. Violent.

Not like me. Not anymore.

But I don’t care. I’m tired of watching everything fall apart.

“Chadwick’s rattled,” I hear James say behind me as I finally skate toward the bench during the TV timeout.

“Ice cube’s melting,” Ethan mutters.

I don’t react. I sit. Water bottle. Sip. Mask back on. Pretend none of this is happening.

Connor’s pacing. “We’ve got five minutes to salvage this damn period. Heads in. Grit up. Now.”

Parker slides onto the bench beside me, calm like always. “Breathe, man.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“You’re not.” He doesn’t push. Just leaves it there.

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