Page 57 of My Pucked Up Enemy

"No," I say, voice like steel. "You decided that. I just didn’t fight you on it...yet."

She exhales slowly, trying to keep her composure. "Alex, we can’t."

I lean in, close enough to smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. "Can’t and won’t are two different games. And I’m really good at winning. Because can't means there's still room for maybe, and won't just means I haven't convinced you yet."

"You're impossible."

She swallows hard. Then, without another word, she walks away awkwardly on her skates and doesn't look back.

I don’t stop her. Not this time.

But I watch her go, every step a confirmation that I’m right.

She’s now building walls.

And I’m just the guy who knows how to get around them.

Chapter seventeen

Nina

"Theylookgoodtoday,"Coach Stephens mutters beside me, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the Acers finishing warmups on the ice.

"Sharp. More focused than last week," I say, flipping through my notes, half-listening to the echo of sticks clacking and skates carving the ice.

Coach shifts his weight slightly toward me, gaze tightening. "You think they're ready to lock this in?" he asks, voice low but serious. "This one matters, Nina. If we win tonight, we clinch. Playoffs are on the line. Everything we’ve built all season can be riding on this game."

I nod, eyes scanning the lines forming up. This is what I came early for: checking in with the staff, reviewing cue cards, fine-tuning player notes, and reinforcing mental anchors from practice.

By puck drop, I’m seated in the VIP suite with some of the staff and a few foundation sponsors, a coffee in one hand and my notes in the other. It's a good view—center ice, unobstructed, the kind of vantage point that lets you read the momentum shifts as much as the plays. About ten minutes in, Dillon surprises everyone with the opening goal that’s clean, decisive, and right between the pads. The play developed fast, but it was the fluid movement of the line that really stood out. They zigged when the Devils zagged, reading each other like second nature. Tonight Dillon looks more connected than I’ve seen him all season—no hesitation, just trust. That one goal just set the tone, and you can feel it echo across the rink.

"Nice transition from Connor just now," one of the assistant coaches murmurs, leaning in.

I smile, watching the play unfold. "He's breathing through the play. Shoulders are loose. He’s not muscling the puck, he’s trusting it." Also, it's subtle, but I can tell he’s using the reset cue we drilled into the mental sessions.

Parker's next. A turnover near the boards rattles his line, but instead of reacting with frustration, he loops wide, taps his stick twice, and redirects his energy into a clean outlet pass. Anchored. Present.

"That little arc he's skating?" I say. "It’s his mental reset. He visualizes the arc before shifting perspective. We rehearsed that last week."

From a few rows up, another staffer chuckles. "Jedi mind tricks at it again."

"Hey, I’ll take mind tricks if they lead to puck control."

Then James.

He’s chirping, of course—because he’s James—but his body language isn’t agitated. He gestures toward his own chest mid-shift, and I smile. That was his cue. A silent reminder: you know who you are.

Even up here, I can feel the transformation. They’re working the system, yes. But more than that, they’re playing with presence and control.

And then there’s Alex.

Locked in. Movements clean. He resets after every whistle with a deep breath, his skates gliding in the crease like he’s dancing on instinct. Calm. Grounded. We worked hard for that.

Midway through the second period, the Devils press. Fast break, two-on-one. I lean forward in my seat.

Alex reads the play before it happens, tracks the puck across the ice, and blocks the shot like it’s second nature. Effortless.

"Did you see that read?" Derek’s voice buzzes over our headsets.

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