Page 18 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I glance across the ice toward the press box and—

There she is.

Dr. Nina Erwin, seated behind the glass like she’s analyzing a goddamn art exhibit. Blonde hair loose around her shoulders, tablet in hand, eyes scanning everything like she’s playing chess while the rest of us are getting mowed down.

Great. She’s probably taking notes on my meltdown right now.

She’s not even looking at me directly, but somehow I can feel it…that little needle of curiosity she aims like a sniper scope.

Yeah, Doc. Hope you’re enjoying the show.

I pull my mask back down and pretend I don’t feel her watching. Pretend like my heart isn’t still racing from that last goal. Pretend like I’m not unraveling, one thread at a time.

***

Final score: 5–2.

Another loss.

I yank off my gloves before heading down the tunnel. Everything’s too loud—skates clacking, rubber wheels from equipment bins squeaking down concrete, Coach’s voice barking orders to no one in particular.

My pads feel heavier than usual. My shoulders ache. I know I should say something. Do something. But what?

Nice game, boys? Good effort?

No one wants to hear it. Especially not from the guy who gave up five.

I make it into the locker room and rip my mask off. Sit down hard on the bench, and start unstrapping my pads like they personally betrayed me.

Across from me, Ethan’s got his headphones in. James is unwrapping tape like it offended him.

Connor’s already half out of his gear, chin tucked to his chest. He’s frustrated but still in captain mode. He’s probably already planning the next practice drill in his head.

Parker sits down beside me again. Quiet.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” I bite back, too sharp, too fast.

He gives me a look but doesn’t say anything.

James chimes in from across the room. “We should all get group therapy after that performance.”

Ethan snorts. “Speak for yourself. I was flawless.”

James tosses a roll of tape at him. It bounces off Ethan’s shoulder. He doesn’t flinch.

No one’s laughing.

Parker leans in, lowers his voice. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” I say flatly.

“Didn’t think so.”

Coach steps in, clipboard in hand. His voice is low and steady, no yelling this time.

“We regroup. That’s all. I don’t need to tell you we’re in a hole right now. But we don’t stay in it unless we choose to.”

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