Page 19 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Silence.

He looks around. His gaze lands on me for half a second. He doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t have to.

He finishes and leaves. Guys start showering, changing, packing bags for the next road trip.

I grab my phone and my hoodie and slip out the side exit.

I need air.

And space.

And something to hit that isn’t a post.

“Alex Chadwick.”

I hear her before I see her.

Shit.

I keep walking. Footsteps echo behind me, fast and sharp. Of course she’s following me. Of course she can’t just leave it alone. Because she’s Dr. Nina freaking Erwin—ice in her veins, steel in her spine, and eyes like she already knows my blood type and the number of sins on my conscience.

“That outburst wasn’t just about the game.”

I stop but don’t turn. I stare at the cinderblock wall ahead like it might offer me a different escape route.

“You want to do this now?” My voice is low. Rough. I’m not proud of how short I sound, but I’m frayed—mentally, physically, all of it.

“It’s not about want,” she says, steady and calm behind me. “It’s about needing to before you explode again.”

I turn slowly, finally facing her. She’s standing ten feet away in that navy blazer, arms crossed, jaw set. Her hair’s pulled back like she was trying to be practical, but a few strands escaped. She looks... calm. Too calm.

“So now you’re chasing me down to therapize me in the parking lot?”

She tilts her head, eyes sharp. “I’m not chasing. I’m showing up. There’s a difference.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Right. You’re showing up for your dramatic postgame diagnosis. What is it—rage disorder? Ego fatigue? Tell me what chapter I landed in your textbook.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Chadwick.”

That hits harder than it should.

She steps closer, slow and deliberate. “I’m here because I give a damn whether you keep imploding every time something doesn’t go your way.”

“You don’t know what’s in my way.” My voice rises, heat flooding my chest. “You think a couple notes and a press pass means you’ve got me pegged?”

“Then tell me,” she says. Just like that. No hesitation. Like she’s daring me to rip my chest open and hand her the pieces.

I clench my jaw. My hands are fists at my sides. I want to scream. I want to leave. I want to... God, I don’t know what I want.

“They’re counting on me,” I say finally, voice hoarse. “Every single game. Every shift. Every save. I screw up once, and it spirals. One miss and the game’s gone.”

“You’re allowed to be human,” she says, stepping even closer. “Not a wall. Not a machine.”

Her voice isn’t soft, but it’s not sharp either. It’s real. And for some reason, that cuts deeper than anything else she’s said.

“You see me flinch one time and suddenly you know what’s under my skin?” I snap. “Is that how it works? You diagnose people like bruises?

“No,” she says. “But I saw you slam your stick. I saw the way you shut down the entire bench with one look. I saw your shoulders lock up, your breathing change, your focus unravel. You didn’t lose that game because of one goal, Chadwick. You lost it because you stopped trusting yourself.”

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