Page 6 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I drop the barbell and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“Some of us don’t need fixing,” I say.

He watches me for a second. “No. But even the best engines need a tune-up now and then.”

I grab my water and turn away before I say something I regret.

Inside, my walls creak.

If I open up, even a little, everything unravels. Can’t risk it. Not now. Not ever.

***

The clang of weights fades behind me as I walk through the hallway, my head buzzing with sweat and silence. I blink, and for half a second, I’m not in Detroit anymore.

It’s an away game, the moment everything went wrong.

One wrong move. One bad twist.

My knee buckled beneath me, my head slammed the ice, and the roar of the crowd dissolved into white noise. I remember trying to stand—reflex, instinct—but my leg wouldn’t respond. I remember panic flooding my chest like black water.

Then the hospital.

Then silence.

Then months of being treated like a broken part. Trainers. Therapists. Endless questions. I could fix the muscles, the mechanics. But the mind? No one touched that part.

No one dared.

I shake it off.

It’s over. It’s done. I’m back.

Sort of.

I’m rounding the corner when I see her in Coach Stephens’ office.

Dr. Erwin.

She’s sitting across from Derek, sipping a coffee, a sleek black notebook in her lap. Her posture’s relaxed but alert, like a soldier who knows where every exit is. She’s listening, nodding once or twice, but she’s not schmoozing or trying to charm.

She’s just watching. Reading.

Analyzing.

Her back’s mostly to me, but I pause anyway, out of her view. Even though I’m not thrilled about any of this, I can’t help but notice the way she carries herself: confident and grounded. She’s got this long blonde hair pulled into some no-nonsense twist, and when I first met her, I caught the sharp green of her eyes.

Dangerous. The kind of pretty that makes smart men say stupid things. And yeah, she’s got a figure that makes you look twice even when you know you shouldn’t. Doesn’t mean I’m buying what she’s selling, but I’m not blind.

She’s calm. Not in a performative way but in a way that says she’s seen a lot worse than cocky hockey players and locker room antics. There’s no wide-eyed wonder or glossy admiration in her presence here.

I keep walking toward the exit.

“Alex!”

I pause and turn my head just enough to see Coach Stephens standing in the doorway, waving me over. “Got a minute?”

Shit. I adjust the towel around my neck and nod, pissed I just got stopped. I step in, shoulders squared, almost like I’m bracing for impact.

---