Page 9 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Still, there are slivers I cling to.

Parker blocks a shot that clearly stings. He doesn’t flinch. Gets back up, limps to the bench, and tells the rookie sitting next to him, “You do it next time.”

James doesn’t chirp once the whole third period. That alone is a red flag. Chirping is part of how he stays sharp and keeps his edge. Without it, something’s definitely off.

Connor gives a full-body push on every shift, leading by example even if the effort isn’t rewarded.

I write:Leadership behaviors emerging despite deficit. Mental exhaustion > physical. Recommend urgent psychological support structure.

Final score: 6–3.

I stay in my seat while the players skate off. One by one, heads down, as they disappear into the tunnel. No chirping. No fight. Just silence.

This isn’t just a slump.

It’s a fracture.

And I’m here to fix it.

***

Coach Stephens is already in the hotel’s conference room when I arrive, pacing with a bottle of water in one hand and a folder in the other. He looks up when I knock lightly on the open door.

“Got something for me already?” he asks, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” I say, stepping inside with my tablet tucked under my arm. “But I’m not gonna lie, it’s not pretty.”

He gestures to the seat across from him. “Don’t sugarcoat it. Hit me.”

I sit, open the tablet, and slide it across the table toward him.

“They’re not just out of sync,” I begin. “They’re mentally fractured. I saw flashes of cohesion in the second period—Connor's goal, a few smart shifts—but it didn’t last. Their default setting right now is survival mode, not performance.”

He scrolls through a few bullet points. “Jesus. This much already?”

“Coach, I’ve only had three one-on-ones so far, none of them top liners. What I saw tonight confirmed what I suspected after practice. They’re carrying this slump like it’s personal failure, not a team rut.”

He leans back and sighs. “They used to love the game. Now they look like they’re dreading it.”

“Because they’ve stopped trusting each other. And themselves.”

He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what do you need from me?”

“Support,” I say. “And space. I want to run structured group sessions twice a week. Mandatory. On top of that, I’m pulling in the top line for individual work. Connor, Parker, Alex, Ethan. James too, sooner rather than later.”

“Do you think Alex is gonna sit across from you and spill his soul?”

I give a thin smile. “Nope. But he doesn’t have to spill. He just has to show up. And maybe throw one fewer emotional grenade each game.”

Coach snorts. “Fair.”

“Beyond that,” I continue, “I want to run pregame mindfulness sessions for those who opt in. Breathing work, visualization, focus resets. Plus, I want to introduce basic team-building off the ice…nothing cheesy, but something to reinforce trust. They need each other. Right now they’re playing like strangers.”

Coach doesn’t respond immediately. He just studies me for a long beat. I let him. Finally, he says, “You really believe you can fix this?”

“I don’t think it’s about fixing,” I say quietly. “It’s about reconnecting. There’s a difference.”

He exhales, deep and slow. “I’ve tried everything I know how to do on the ice. If we don’t turn this around soon, I’m going to have the front office breathing down my neck, demanding trades or demotions. You’re the last shot we’ve got, Doc. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.”

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