Page 117 of My Pucked Up Enemy

“Can I see you later?” he asks. “After I’ve showered again and cooled down?”

“I’d like that.”

He nods, but doesn’t move just yet. “For the record… I miss being in your head. You used to tell me all your mental tricks.”

I smile. “You remember the breathing one?”

“Breathe in grit. Exhale panic.”

“That one.”

He starts to turn again, then stops. “Hey, Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll wait. A little longer.”

And then he walks away.

But this time, I don’t feel paralyzed.

This time, I feel a little closer to ready but not quite yet. I can’t force it if I don’t fully know.

He walks away.

And I just… stand there.

Heart aching.

I could’ve said it. I wanted to. But “almost” doesn’t build a future. And I’m running out of time.

Chapter thirty-two

Alex

Connortossesapieceof toast across the table and Mikey dodges it like a goalie in a shootout.

"You trying to feed me or assassinate me, man?" Mikey deadpans.

Dillon snorts into his coffee. "If it was an assassination attempt, that aim was pathetic. My niece has better hand-eye coordination."

"Your niece is a gymnast, bro," Connor says. "That’s not even a fair comparison."

James raises a brow, lifting his water bottle. "Just saying, if we lose tonight, it’s definitely because Dillon jinxed us with his weird toast voodoo."

"I didn’t realize toast had mystical powers," I mutter, mostly to myself.

"Everything has mystical powers when you’re on a winning streak," James says solemnly. "That’s locker room law."

The guys laugh. The mood is light. It should be contagious.

The eggs on my plate are cold. So is my smoothie. The spoon in my hand might as well be a rock.

I sit in the Acers’ conference room with the rest of the team, trying to act like I’m absorbing the strategy Coach and Max are walking us through. Diagrams flash on the TV screen. Arrows, zones, puck movement. I nod at the right moments, keep my posture straight, but it’s all static. It’s white noise behind the thunder in my head.

James leans forward across the table, nudging me with his elbow. “Hey, ballerina, nice pirouette yesterday when you made that blocker save. You auditioning for the Nutcracker or just adding style points?”

The guys laugh. Normally, I’d throw a smirk his way, maybe fire back with something about his noodle wrists or his tragic slapshot accuracy. But today, it hits differently. Too sharp. Too soon. Too much.

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