Page 45 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“Alright, guys. We’re switching gears. Mind on ice is just as important as muscle. You know the drill. We are going to do a mindful meditation and visualization again today.”

Sounds good, right? Except when the person leading it is a mental dumpster fire.

I cue the music. Low, rhythmic tones. The sound of breath and water, meant to ground the body in presence.

Mine skips like a rock across the surface.

“Everyone find a seat on a bleacher. Sit or lie down—whatever gets you centered. Close your eyes if you’re comfortable.”

I walk among them as I speak, my voice calm, measured.

“Start with your breath. In through the nose, slow and steady. Hold it. Let it go. Again. Inhale… hold… exhale.”

The space gradually quiets, the music a soft thrum behind my words.

“Visualize the ice. Feel the skates under you, the grip of the stick in your hand. Your body moving exactly how you trained it to. Controlled. Focused. Present.”

Some of them actually settle. Shoulders drop. James peeks one eye open but closes it quickly when I pass.

I cue up the next section. “Now picture a moment in the game where things get chaotic. Breathe into that chaos. You don’t chase it. You anchor yourself. Feel your power in the stillness.”

I finish the cycle and let the silence ride for a moment longer before quietly saying, “Alright. Bring it back. Breathe in. And out. Open your eyes.”

Not perfect. But better. They may not know it yet, but their bodies felt it.

My eyes land on Alex for a second. He’s watching me.

I look away before our eyes lock. Too late. My stomach flips, and I nearly trip over Parker's hockey stick.

Focus, Nina.

You tell them to be present and let go of distractions.

Be the example.

But I can feel the disconnect humming beneath the surface as the guys return to the ice. The air feels heavier today. James glides by the bench, slowing just enough to mutter, “Vibes are weird today. Someone steal our playlist or is there vodka in our gatorade?”

Laughter bubbles from a few teammates, but it’s muted.

They know. Maybe not the specifics, but they know something’s off.

I press my lips together and don’t answer.

***

I take the long way to my office.

Every hallway feels like a minefield. Every corner could lead to Alex. And I’m not ready. Not after that look this morning in the rink. That slight tilt of his head like he was about to say something but didn’t.

I duck into my office, close the door, and pretend to be absorbed in group dynamics data.

He’s scheduled for a one-on-one in twenty minutes.

I cancel it.

My message is efficient: "Need more time to finalize group plans. Let’s push."

It’s a lie. And a cop-out. But I hit send anyway.

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