Page 91 of My Pucked Up Enemy

My throat tightens. “You think I’m running?”

“I think you’ve spent a long time proving you could go far. Maybe it’s time to see how deep you can go instead.”

The office is suddenly too warm. Or maybe it’s just me.

“I wish there was a right answer,” I murmur.

“There isn’t,” he says. “There’s only the truth.”

“And how do I find that?”

He lifts his mug in a half-toast. “Listen to the part of you that doesn’t need applause to feel certain.”

I close my eyes for a second. The weight of everything I haven’t said presses down like fog.

Alex. The players. The arena. The quiet thrill of seeing growth happen in real time. The way I felt when I stood at that podium, sure of nothing but the love in the room.

Maybe it’s not about choosing the shinier option.

Maybe it’s about choosing the one that feels like home.

But even now, with Elias’s wisdom threading through my thoughts, I’m not ready to choose.

Not yet.

I stand, setting my mug on the desk.

“Thank you,” I say.

He gets up, hands in his pockets. “You’ll do the right thing. You always do. Even when it scares the hell out of you.”

We hug. Brief but full of history.

As I walk out into the sharp morning air, I feel a little lighter. Not because I’ve made my decision.

But because I know it’s okay to be scared of both directions.

***

By the time I pull into the parking lot at the Acers arena, the sun is dipping behind the rooftops and the lot is already humming with activity. I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than I should, watching players unload gear from cars, staff heading inside with clipboards and radios. I’m starting to feel that game-night buzz—electric and urgent, laced with adrenaline and purpose.

I grab my bag and head inside.

The arena’s inner corridors always smell the same—like cold concrete and rubber mixed with the scent of focus, sweat and possibility. It's oddly grounding.

Coach Stephens catches me just outside the locker room.

“Hey, Doc,” he says, clipboard in hand, brow furrowed like he’s mid-strategy.

“Hey, Coach. Big night?”

“Bigger than most,” he says. “We win this, we lock in our seed in the playoffs. Lose it, we make things harder than they need to be.”

“Sounds like most playoff races.”

He smirks. “You’re not wrong. Boys are fired up though. Focused. Dialed in.”

I nod, then gesture toward the locker room. “Mind if I check in?”

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