Page 38 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Chapter eleven

Nina

"Let’sstartwithyourobservations."

Derek Stephens’ voice cuts clean through the conference room, professional and measured. He’s seated at the head of the table, arms folded, with the kind of stillness that only comes from years of coaching chaos. Next to him, the General Manager, the Assistant GM, the Player Development Director, and Karen from HR sit with their tablets and neutral expressions. The vibe is friendly, but controlled.

I click my pen and glance down at my notes. No nerves. I’ve done this before.

"In the past few weeks," I begin, "I’ve conducted both group and individual sessions with the players. The early resistance is softening. We're not at full buy-in yet, but they're talking. More importantly, they're listening. To me, and to each other."

The GM swivels in his chair, nodding slowly. "We noticed the difference on the bench last game. Energy was up. Communication was sharp."

"Parker called out an adjustment mid-shift in the second period," Derek adds. "First time he's done that this season."

"Ethan didn't spiral after that penalty either," I offer. "We’ve been working on impulse control. He responded instead of reacting. That was a win."

The Assistant GM scribbles something on his notepad. HR shifts in her seat, and I clock it immediately…the subtle prep before a pivot.

"That’s all very promising," she says, with a smile so tight it squeaks. "We do want to commend your progress. But as a reminder, and this is standard policy, your role requires a certain degree of professional distance from the players."

There it is.

I smile, but my stomach drops.

"Of course. I’m fully aware of the boundaries in place."

"We’re not suggesting otherwise," she says quickly. "It’s just... well, we’ve heard from a few people that some of your sessions have gotten... emotionally intense, which is to be expected. But just keep in mind, perceptionmatters."

Emotionally intense. Is that what they’re calling it now?

My pulse quickens. I nod again, keeping my tone neutral. "I understand. I'll make sure things stay focused."

Derek clears his throat, shifting slightly. He's not looking at me, but he doesn't need to. The message was delivered. The seed planted.

And now I’m pissed.

Emotionally intense? That’s the point. That’s the damn job. What do they want me to do—hand out crossword puzzles and call it therapy? Of course the sessions are intense. That’s where the change happens. That’s where the growth starts. You don’t get a guy like Alex Chadwick to crack open by asking about his weekend and keeping it surface-level. These players are trained to bury everything under toughness and jokes. It takes pressure to crack the armor.

How dare she imply that emotional intensity is something to be warned about! That’s not a red flag, that’s progress, bitch. That’s breakthrough territory. And if they all can’t see that, maybe it’s because they’ve never been the ones stuck inside that kind of pressure cooker.

I’ve walked this tightrope for weeks, balancing trust, progress, professionalism. And now, suddenly, someone’s uncomfortable because I’m getting real results?

Give me a break.

Eat a real breakfast, Karen from HR. Maybe then you’ll have the bandwidth to understand why emotional workmatters.

And now I'm stuck wondering:Did someone see or say something?

I leave the meeting with my mind racing and my steps sharp. The hallway feels colder than it did earlier. I walk fast, trying to lose the echo of that phrase…

Professional distance.

They didn’t say my name. They didn’t say his. But they didn’t need to.

The kiss flashes in my memory, as vivid as if it just happened. The way his hands curled into my jacket. The heat in his voice. The chaos and want and need.

God, Nina. What were you thinking?

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