Page 46 of My Pucked Up Enemy

His response is short. Too short.

"Let me know."

Notno problem.Notsounds good.Just that.

I rub my forehead and stare out the window. What the hell am I doing?

Avoiding him doesn’t fix this. But facing him right now is risky and dangerous. I don’t know if I can trust myself not to fall into that heat again.

Ten minutes later, I step out of my office to grab something from the supply cabinet. I round the corner and there he is leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting. Or maybe just unlucky timing.

He straightens when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

I meet his eyes for a split second. It’s enough to see the question there. The frustration. The restraint.

“Hi.”

It’s clipped. Empty.

I walk past him.

And he lets me.

My pulse races the whole way down the hall.

I'm a coward.

***

Coach Derek’s voice booms from the bench as the puck drops, starting tonight’s home game. “Let’s go! Heads up, feet moving! Make them chase you!”

But the fire he’s trying to spark doesn’t catch.

From the first shift, the team looks… off.

Ethan over-skates a puck in the neutral zone, muttering a curse as he circles back. James charges the net with energy but no finesse, botching a clean setup from Connor. Parker takes a slashing penalty, the kind he never commits—lazy, frustrated, out of sync.

Even Alex, my ever-composed, stonewall goalie is half a second behind tonight. His glove misses a top-shelf wrister that he normally eats alive. The puck rings the back of the net, and I watch his head snap back like he’s just been punched.

My stomach churns.

Just as I’m about to stand, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Derek:

Come to the locker room before they head back out. Think they need a second voice.

I grab my tablet and head down. The hallway feels longer than usual. When I step inside the locker room, the guys are slouched on benches, sweaty and quiet.

The second intermission hits, and I watch Coach Derek pull them in hard. "Alright, boys, I need more from you, on every line. Tighten the passes, support each other, and stop skating like it's your first day on ice! This game is still ours if you act like it," he barks, pacing like a storm contained in a suit.

Then, he glances toward me and says, "Nina! You're up. They need your head magic."

I blink, startled, but move quickly. The players are still catching their breath, jerseys damp and eyes glaring with frustration.

"You guys remember what it took to win three in a row?" I say, voice steady even though my stomach’s doing somersaults. "Discipline. Energy. Focus. That third period? You’ve got to play like every play matters. Because it does."

I glance at Alex without meaning to. His eyes catch mine—and I feel it. That ache, sharp and immediate. I break the contact, clearing my throat.

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