Page 66 of My Pucked Up Enemy

James pumps a fist. "Progress, baby."

Parker mutters, "Still wouldn’t trust you with the last shift, though."

James flips him off without missing a beat. "Good thing it’s not up to you, sunshine."

The session wraps with laughter, ribbing, and a few dramatic bows from James.

Coach and I step forward. “One more thing,” he says. “Next week’s our bye. We’re going off-grid.”

Groans. Cheers. Suspicion.

“Two-day retreat,” I clarify. “Half hour outside Detroit. Private inn. Woods. Firepits. No skates.”

Dillon grins. “That sounds like summer camp with trauma.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And just as productive.”

The banter rolls on, but I catch Alex watching me quietly. Not laughing, not teasing—just observing. Like he’s already working the next move on the chessboard.

***

By early evening, the arena is alive with energy. Lights flash. Music pumps through the speakers. But tonight’s not just about the Acers.

It’s Life Spark Night.

Kids in Acers gear swarm the tunnel, eyes wide. Each one holds a mini hockey stick and wears a grin that says they’re ready to conquer the world.

Coach gives them a quick safety rundown, and then the doors open.

One by one, they skate onto the ice, greeted by cheers. The scoreboard lights up with each name called. It’s like the NHL Draft meets Make-a-Wish, and I blink away the emotion.

Each child gets three shots at the goal with their mini hockey sticks, aiming for prizes like team hats, autographed sticks, and VIP backstage passes. With every shot, the crowd roars, cheering on every swing, no matter the outcome. Some kids miss, some barely graze the puck, but every single one is met with high-fives and amazing support. It’s magic on ice.

Alex crouches in the crease, looking massive and goofy in his gear. But he’s not there to block. He dives, flops, dramatically oversells every miss.

It’s a wonderful spectacle.

A tiny boy with thick glasses nails one straight through the five-hole. Alex tumbles backward like he’s been hit by a cannon.

“Goalie down!” James shouts from the bench, laughing.

Alex lifts a gloved hand. “Sniper alert!”

The last girl, no older than six, scores all three.

“Trade me,” Connor jokes. “She’s got better stats.”

I stand near the ice, my hand over my chest. This is what it’s all about. The sport, the impact, the love.

And as I watch Alex help the girl off the ice, her arms thrown around his neck, I feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the arena noise. There’s something about the way he gently lowers her to the ground, how he grins at her parents like he’s just handed over a piece of magic—that catches me off guard. It’s disarming. Hot, even. Damn it.

He turns just as he’s handing her off, and our eyes meet across the tunnel. For a second, it’s just the two of us, frozen in the chaos. He lifts his brows slightly, as if to say, “What?”

I shake my head and laugh. “You’ve got a future in public relations, Chadwick.”

He winks as he skates backward. “Only if you’re writing my speeches, Doc.”

The atmosphere is full of joy and anticipation of the game that's about to start. And now, a local high school girl is singing the National Anthem.

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