Page 90 of My Pucked Up Enemy

The smell of dusty books and strong coffee hits me like a warm, intellectual hug. His office hasn’t changed. The same framed diploma from Stanford sits behind him. The same cracked globe stands in the corner. The same overstuffed bookshelf that leans precariously against the wall is still filled with sport psych journals, yellow legal pads, and photos of athletes frozen mid-victory.

“So,” he says, folding into his desk chair and peering at me like I’m a puzzle he still enjoys solving. “Tell me what’s rattling you.”

I laugh quietly, more exhale than sound. “That transparent, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You showed up here on a Saturday in boots you haven’t broken in and a look that says you’ve rewritten your decision matrix six times before lunch.”

I stare into my coffee. “The NHL offered me a job. League office. Senior Mental Performance Consultant. Full relocation, full staff. Big visibility.”

His expression doesn’t change. He just nods slowly, like he’s flipping a mental page. “And?”

“And… I haven’t said yes.”

He waits. Because he’s Elias. Because he knows the power of silence.

“I thought it would be a no-brainer,” I continue. “It’s the kind of opportunity people in our field dream about. Prestige, influence, the whole package. But ever since the email landed, I’ve felt like my chest is full of wet cement.”

“Because?”

I hesitate. “Because I’ve started to build something in Detroit, something I didn’t expect to matter this much.”

“Define ‘something,’” he says, sipping his coffee.

“The team,” I say. “The players. The progress. The relationships. Not just with them, but with myself. I’ve changed.”

He leans back, steepling his fingers. “So the conflict isn’t between good and bad. It’s between right and more right.”

“Exactly. I thought this job was the goal,” I finally admit. “All those late nights, all those conferences and certifications—I thought they were leading me to something like this. But Detroit… it’s like I accidentally found a life I want, and now I don’t know if I can let it go.”

His face softens. “The dream evolves. That’s not failure. That’s growth.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Try telling that to the voice in my head that keeps screaming I’ll regret it if I don’t take the big leap.”

“Regret comes in all shapes,” he says. “You can regret staying. You can regret leaving. But regret isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a symptom of caring.”

I blink fast. “Wow. That’s depressing.”

He chuckles. “Only if you expect life to come with a guarantee. Which you don’t, by the way. You’ve always chosen challenge over certainty.”

I stare at the bookshelf behind him. A cracked spine catches my eye—Quiet Leadership.It’s one of the first books he ever handed me.

“What would you do?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. He sets his mug down and leans forward.

“You remember when you got the offer to intern with the Marines instead of staying in academia?”

I nod.

“You were terrified. Said it wasn’t you. Said you weren’t tough enough. But you went.”

“And it changed everything,” I say quietly.

He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what Detroit is. Maybe you’re afraid to stay because it’s too close to joy.”

I squint. “That’s messed up.”

He smiles. “So are most brilliant people. My point is, don’t measure this choice by the size of the opportunity. Measure it by what kind of life it leads to.”

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