Page 29 of My Pucked Up Enemy

James throws a towel at my head. “Guess the goalie finally found his Zen.”

Ethan raises a bottle. “Must’ve been the breathing, or maybe the puffer vest.”

I shrug. “It was the green shake. Spinach. Mango. Dominance.”

Connor claps my back. “You were a wall out there, man. And, everyone stepped up.”

Parker adds, “That’s how it’s done. We played like we meant it.”

They keep it rolling—chirping, fist bumps, locker room towels snapping like whips. I’m part of it again. Not just the guy at the back. Part of the unit.

Then Coach steps in and the noise dials down fast.

“Great game, guys! That’s the team I know. The one that fights for each other and doesn’t quit.” His gaze sweeps the room. “Let’s carry it forward.”

Coach grins and turns to leave. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to have a nice steak dinner with Lizzie."

Ethan snorts. "Have fun, Coach. Just don’t let Lizzie ghost you mid-steak."

Coach smirks. "Ghost? Please. I don’t get ghosted mid-appetizer—hell, I don’t get ghosted at all. Some of us have game, Ethan."

Laughter erupts. Even I crack a smile.

***

Later, when the room is empty, gear stripped, shower steam still in the air, I sit alone on the bench, stick resting on my knees. My heartbeat is finally slowing down.

I think about the game. The saves. The shift in the team. The shift inme.

My mind was clear out there tonight. The pressure didn’t crush me.

And I know damn well that has everything to do with those sessions. With her.

I remember that nod I gave her after the ice visualization. How she didn’t flinch. Just nodded back like she expected it.

She’s getting through to me.

And I hate how much I don’t hate it.

Can’t let it matter.

But it’s starting to.

If she’s really getting in my head, what the hell happens next?

Chapter nine

Nina

I’mnotwatchingthegame replay for the score. I’m watching for the moments in between—the body language, the bench energy, the subtle shift in team dynamics.

I pause the video on a slow-motion shot of the guys celebrating Connor’s third-period goal. There’s grins, helmet taps, arms tossed over shoulders. Even Alex, who’s usually composed to the point of being unreadable, cracks half a smile and glove-taps James.

They needed that win. More than that, they needed each other.

But one game doesn’t fix everything. I jot quick notes on a yellow pad:

Parker supporting Ethan mid-shift

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