Page 40 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“No, Derek. You don’t. These guys don’t crack open unless they feel safe enough to. That’s not me crossing a line. That’s me doing the work.”

“I hear you. And I agree,” he says, calm but firm. “Look, I didn’t greenlight that warning. I’m not policing your methods. HR’s just covering their asses.”

“Because they’re worried about perception,” I mutter.

“And we both know how fast perception can spiral,” he replies. “But you’ve got my support. Don’t change what’s working.”

I blow out a breath and lean back in my chair. “Thanks. I just needed to hear that.”

“You’re good at your job, Nina,” he says. “Don’t let one stiff in a blazer shake you.”

"Thanks again, Derek." I hang up.

The work is still the work. I know how to lead. I know how to earn trust.

But I can’t afford to let my judgment blur. Not again. Not with him.

Even if he looks at me like that.

Even if part of me looks back.

Especially then.

I reach for a pen and my notepad, flipping to a fresh page.

Across the top, I write:

Session Strategy Adjustments

Underneath it, in smaller handwriting:

No more personal proximity. Keep the edge sharp.

And even smaller, tucked into the margin:

God help me if I’ve already gone too far.

Chapter twelve

Alex

There’samoment,justa fraction of a second as I step onto the ice, where everything fades. The noise, the nerves, the pressure. It’s all white noise under the scrape of my blades across the blue line. I drop into the crease. Tap each post with my stick. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Control what you can. Let the rest burn.

The puck drops.

The first period is a slugfest. On unfamiliar ice, in a city that reeks of hot dogs and desperation, we dig in. No time to overthink. Just read, react, reset. The other team’s got speed, but we’re synced tighter than we’ve been in weeks. Defense is communicating. Forwards are backchecking. And me? I’m sharp. Calm.

Every shot that comes my way, I count the breath. One, two. Chest up. Glove ready. The stuff Nina drilled into my brain with that ridiculous breathing pattern.

James barrels down the wing and fires a wrister that the opposing goalie barely catches. Parker crashes the rebound but gets shoved hard into the boards. Penalty. We go on the power play.

Connor finds the back of the net off a rebound. We’re up 1–0.

Back in my crease, I let the noise crash over me. The crowd’s booing; the home fans aren’t happy we’re ahead. Their team’s down by one, and we’re on enemy ice, far from Detroit. Our bench is banging sticks in celebration. But I stay locked in.

The buzzer sounds, ending the first period.

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