Page 92 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“Go on in. But don’t let Henderson talk you into another motivational TikTok. We’re still trying to forget the last one.”

I laugh and wave him off. “No promises.”

Inside, the locker room’s bustling and alive. The pre-game playlist is pumping, a mix of rap, rock, and pure chaos. Players are stretching, lacing skates, exchanging chirps like they haven’t seen each other in years. There’s a current of tension, but the good kind.

James spots me first. He throws up his arms like he’s welcoming royalty.

“Well if it isn’t our award-winning mental goddess!”

“Oh no,” I mutter.

Ethan turns around, grinning wide. “Did you retire that green dress, or can we vote for a second appearance?”

“You ever thought of putting ‘team goddess’ on your business card?” James adds.

I set my bag down and cross my arms, arching a brow. “Only if I put ‘honorary disaster wrangler’ under your names.”

Parker chuckles from the bench. “Seems accurate.”

Connor grins. “She’s not wrong.”

“Thank you,” I say with mock grandeur. “I’ll be here all night. Good luck out there.”

Ethan throws his towel at James, who ducks and nearly knocks over a water bottle. “Team disaster indeed.”

I glance around the room, heart tugging in all directions. These guys have grown so much. We’ve grown. And being part of that? It’s been more than a job. It’s been a purpose.

Then I see Alex.

He’s at his stall, taping his stick with practiced precision. He’s already half-geared—pads on, jersey down, hair still damp from warmup showers—but when his eyes meet mine, the noise of the room fades.

He stands and walks over, slow but deliberate. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“You look... good.”

“Are you still thinking about the dress?” I tease.

He shrugs with a crooked grin. “Maybe. But also just you. Right now. Here.”

I exhale slowly. The thing that wants to rise in me is too big for this hallway. Too risky for this moment. But my fingers twitch, and I want so badly to reach for his.

Instead, I say, “Play like you own the ice.”

He tilts his head. “Only if you’re watching.”

“I always am.”

His smile softens into something that aches. “We’re good?”

I nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

He doesn’t push. Just bumps my shoulder lightly as he heads back toward his stall.

The team rallies around him as he suits up. Game time. Focus shifts. But my pulse stays right where he left it—elevated.

I drift back down the hallway, past the media crews and staff with headsets, past the trainers and water jugs and the unmistakable hum of arena life gearing up. And then I stop.

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