Page 22 of My Pucked Up Enemy

And if I keep my damn distance.

***

By the time Alex walks into my office, I’ve already gone over my notes from last week, restructured his session plan twice, and brewed a second cup of coffee I probably don’t need. He’s three minutes early.

Red flag? Green flag? Emotional whiplash? Jury's still out.

"Morning," he says, voice low but not gruff. No smartass smirk. No snarky opener. He just drops into the chair across from me like he didn’t kiss me against a concrete wall forty-eight hours ago.

"Hey." I match his tone, calm and professional. No wobbles. No giveaway expressions.

He leans back, crossing his arms. "Let’s just get this over with."

Ah. There’s the sarcasm. Balance restored.

I gesture toward the small white mat rolled out between us. "We’re doing a different start today. Ever tried breathing drills?"

"I mean... I breathe every day."

"Gold star," I murmur, pulling the mat into position. "But I mean controlled breath work. Helps regulate focus."

He eyes me. "If this ends with me in a yoga pose, I’m out."

"No downward dog. Promise."

He exhales and, to my surprise, rolls his shoulders back and drops into a seated position on the mat. Slow. Controlled. Guarded, but cooperative. My fingers itch to write that down.

I sit down on the mat with him. "Close your eyes," I say. "We’re going to walk through a pressure moment. I want you to picture yourself in net. It’s the third period. Tie game. One minute left. The other team is pressing. Fans are loud. Your defense just fumbled a rebound. What happens next?"

His breathing stutters slightly. Then evens.

"I track the puck," he says quietly. "I try to square up."

"What do you feel in that moment?"

A pause. His brows draw together.

"Like I’m the last line of defense... and the first to blame."

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"You're not alone out there," I say softly. "Even if it feels like it. Hockey is a team sport, Alex. You may wear the pads, but you don’t carry the weight alone."

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.

"It’s okay," I say gently. "This isn’t about right or wrong responses. It’s just about awareness."

He shifts, tension in his shoulders, but then exhales through his nose. "Sometimes... it’s like I can’t hear anything in the crease. The crowd, the bench, even my own head…it just all goes silent. Then one wrong move and it’s like the volume slams back in full force."

I sit a little straighter, intrigued. "That kind of tunnel vision is not uncommon. But the snapback? That rush of sound and emotion? That tells me you’re internalizing more than you’re admitting."

"Internalizing doesn’t lose games."

"No, but it can slow your reactions and increase hesitation. Doubt’s a heavy thing, Alex."

He opens his eyes. "You ever played in front of twenty thousand people who expect you to be perfect?"

I shake my head. "Nope. But I’ve counseled people who have. And I’ve helped them carry that weight until they realized they didn’t have to do it alone."

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