Page 24 of My Pucked Up Enemy

The chairs are arranged in a wonky circle, half of them already tipped back like the guys are allergic to sitting upright. There’s an open bag of protein bars on the floor, someone’s sweaty practice jersey hanging off the back of a folding chair, and James is already drumming a rhythm on the edge of a nearby table with his hands.

“All right,” I say, holding up an actual puck. “New rule. This little beauty is the only mic that matters. No one speaks unless they’re holding it. It’s called pass-the-puck.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Is this like musical chairs but with trauma?”

Laughter rumbles around the room. Connor rolls his eyes. “Wait for the damn puck, Henderson.”

I grin. “The prompt is simple. What’s one thing you need more of from the guy sitting to your left, or from the team in general?”

I toss the puck to James with a flourish. James catches it like it’s a grenade.

“Well,” he says, shooting a look at Ethan. “For starters, Ethan needs to stop hogging the aux cord. One more Taylor Swift warmup and I’m filing a complaint.”

Ethan takes the puck and immediately deadpans, “Maybe if you had the emotional range to appreciate ‘Anti-Hero,’ you wouldn’t choke in shootouts.”

The room explodes with laughter.

“Touché,” James concedes.

Connor gets the puck next and taps it against his palm. The laughter fades a little. He’s not the comic relief today.

“I need to stop acting like it’s all on me,” he says, voice low but steady. “Every mistake. Every loss. It’s not just me out there.”

The room quiets.

Parker, seated to his left, takes the puck. He twirls it once in his palm.

"I need guys to stop checking out when we’re down in the second. Doesn’t matter if it’s 2–0 or 4–1, we stay in it. Every shift.”

Nods follow. Less bravado now. Less sarcasm. The current of real connection starting to reveal itself. Parker passes the puck to Dillon.

Dillon shrugs and says, “I need more communication on the ice. Sometimes I feel like I’m guessing what the play is supposed to be.”

He passes the puck to Mikey, who rubs the back of his neck before saying, “I need more eye contact. I know it sounds dumb, but half the time I don’t even know if you guys are hearing me.”

Mikey passes the puck to Alex. Every eye shifts toward him.

Alex rolls the puck between his fingers. “I need the guys to trust that I’m still me. Even when I’m not perfect.”

Silence again. Heavy. Real.

Then he smirks slightly and adds, “Also… I need someone to tell James that the girl from Loco Taco isn’t just ghosting him, she just switched her phone number to avoid him.”

That gets a ripple of chuckles before he flicks the puck toward Johnson, who catches it and clears his throat.

“I need the chirping to stay on the ice. We take that crap into the locker room and it messes with our heads.”

The puck travels the circle again, this time with more honesty and a little less hesitation.

Dillon speaks up again as the puck comes back around. “I need someone to remind me we’re not just here to survive the season. We’re supposed to enjoy the damn game too.”

Mikey snorts. “You mean like James and the hot zamboni driver he keeps striking out with?”

James takes the puck, dramatically holding it up like Hamlet with a skull. “Hey, she smiled at me. That’s progress.”

More laughter.

Then James pauses. “Seriously though... I need to be reminded that we’ve still got each other’s backs. Because it’s easy to forget that when we’re losing.”

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