Page 44 of My Pucked Up Enemy

***

I’m lying on my hotel bed, still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers.

This isn’t just a hookup.

She’s under my skin. Deeper than I meant to let her go.

Every time I try to back off, I end up closer.

Being around her strips away all the noise in my head. I’m not just the goalie or the guy with the chip on his shoulder, but something real underneath all that.

And now, after tonight…

If this is what crossing the line feels like… I’m not sure I ever want to go back.

Chapter thirteen

Nina

Myapartmentshouldfeellike a refuge, but this morning it’s just a reminder that I can’t outrun what happened. The moment my alarm buzzes, reality crashes over me like a cold wave.

The plane ride back from the road game plays on a loop in my head. It was two hours of turbulence and silence, Alex sitting two rows behind me, and not a single word was exchanged. Not even a glance. Just the gaping ache of everything unsaid.

I swing my legs out of bed and sit there for a minute, rubbing the back of my neck. There’s a knot forming that’s tight, stubborn, and all too familiar.

“There’s a line,” I mutter to myself. “I didn’t just blur it, I set it on fire.”

The kiss. The heat of it. The way he pressed me against the door like he couldn’t stop himself—and how I didn’t want him to.

God, what was I thinking?

I push up to my feet and shuffle to the kitchen, still in my oversized sleep tee, hair in a mess. I try to drown my anxiety in black coffee and protein toast, but it barely makes a dent. My mind is still in that elevator and in that hotel room.

You’re the psychologist. The adult in the room. The professional.

Right. So start acting like one.

I change into leggings and a quarter-zip, throw my hair into a tight ponytail, and grab my tablet loaded with session plans for the day. My finger hovers over the screen, tempted to cancel practice observation altogether. Stay in my lane. Breathe. Avoid the risk.

But hiding won’t fix this. I’m the one who told these guys that progress is messy, that the only way through is forward.

So I go.

***

Coach Stephens’ voice cuts through the rink the moment I step inside. “Pick it up, boys! Skate like you’ve actually seen a puck before!”

The team’s already moving through passing drills, but the energy is sluggish, off-beat.

I watch from the stands, hands in my jacket pocket to keep them warm. My tablet rests on my lap, but I’m not looking at it. I’m watching them. The team. The way they move. The way they don’t.

Something’s off.

They’re going through the motions, but there’s a drag to it, like a record playing half a beat too slowly. Passes that should be crisp are sloppy. Footwork is hesitant. Even Parker looks less centered than usual.

And Alex... he’s sharp, but not surgical. His saves lack that extra edge. It’s just enough to notice. Just enough to worry.

Coach claps his hands and calls out, "Nina, you're up. Let’s see if your magic resets their heads."

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