Page 60 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Alex

"She’shere."

I barely hear Ethan say it over the sound of clinking glasses and James loudly rehashing some locker room story that definitely didn’t happen the way he’s telling it. But Ethan’s voice cuts through, low and amused.

I look up.

And there she is.

Nina steps into the private dining room of the downtown Detroit steakhouse confidently, which is impressive, considering half the team’s already here and most of us are at least half a beer in. She’s not even trying. Black dress. Simple heels. Hair twisted up like she didn’t care how perfect it looks.

But it’s her presence. The way she scans the room, eyes sharp but soft, like she knows how to disarm a bomb or a player with one sentence.

My gaze tracks her automatically.

There’s an empty seat next to me. Please sit here.

She catches my eye. Smiles. Small. Controlled.

Then walks straight over.

"Hey," she says, sliding into the chair beside me.

I lean back. "Guess I'm lucky tonight."

"It was either sit next to you or James."

"So the lesser evil. I'll take it."

"Or that I assumed that Coach is saving this seat for me."

Coach Stephens sits on her other side, nodding in greeting. Across the table: Connor, Mikey, Dillon, James, Ethan. Further down: Lizzie next to Coach, and at the next tables nearby, Haley, Grace, and a few other wives and girlfriends and the rest of the players.

Coach stands and taps his glass. The chatter dips.

"Proud of you guys," he says. "We fought hard to get here. Playoffs didn’t come easy, and they don’t mean we’re done. But tonight we celebrate. Not just the goals and saves, but the grit. The growth. And the headspace it took to get here."

He doesn’t say Nina’s name, but he looks at her.

Lizzie stands beside him. "To the Detroit Acers. You made us proud."

"To the Acers!" everyone echoes.

Glasses clink. Steak hits plates. Bread gets passed. Conversation ramps up again.

"No clipboard tonight, Doc?" James calls across the table, mouth full of garlic bread.

Nina lifts her glass. "Didn’t want to document the trauma of watching you eat."

Ethan snorts. "Bet she’s ranking us by fork etiquette."

"Only the ones chewing with their mouths open. James."

"Unreal," James groans. "I invite her into our minds and she judges our table manners."

"Therapy's everywhere, baby," she replies.

She’s in her element. Tossing sass like it’s game tape and they’re the rookies. And they love it. Damn, I love it.

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