Page 48 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I straighten just a little. She’s not hiding behind clinical phrasing or psychological metaphors. This is raw. Real.

“I can’t do my job if I’m... emotionally compromised. And right now?” She swallows hard. “I am. That night at the hotel... it crossed a line.”

I run my tongue across my teeth, keep my expression neutral. “Okay.”

She blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I get it. Professionalism. Boundaries. Ethics.” I glance around. “Very clinical of you.”

She flinches, just barely. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this harder by pretending like it didn’t mean something.”

“Oh, it meant something,” I say, eyes locked on hers. “That’s the problem.”

There’s a long pause. I can practically hear her thoughts sprinting behind those green eyes.

“So what are we now?” I ask, voice low.

She leans back, crossing her arms like she needs a physical barrier between us. “We’re teammates in the mental game. Nothing more.”

“Sure,” I say again, flat. “Whatever you say.”

Silence falls like a wall between us. I think she wants me to argue, to fight it. But I won’t. Not now. Because this game she’s playing? Drawing lines in the sand like we didn’t already cross them? It won’t last.

She picks up her pen again, but the grip is tight, tense. "We should talk about the last game," she says, voice measured. "I know we lost, but tell me what stood out to you."

I shift in my chair, jaw tightening slightly. "It was off. All of it. We weren’t connected. I was half a beat behind every damn shot. The whole team was sluggish. I didn’t feel sharp, and I knew it from the first puck drop."

She nods, scribbling something down. "Where do you think that’s coming from?"

I almost laugh. "Is this a trick question? You think maybe it’s because the psychologist is actively avoiding eye contact with half the team, especially me?"

Her mouth flattens. "I'm not avoiding anyone. And you can't blame me for losing a game. I will, though, take responsibility for avoiding some eye contact."

"Sure," I mutter. "Felt like it. Felt like something was missing. The vibe. The momentum."

She sighs and sets the pen down. "All the more reason why we need to keep our distance. What do you want to focus on in today’s session?"

"Mental reset. I need to clear the noise. The pressure’s building and I can feel it stacking. We’ve had a couple wins, yeah, but that last game? It’s proof I’m not bulletproof."

Nina’s eyes soften just slightly. "Nobody expects you to be bulletproof, Alex. But I get it. Let’s work through it."

I nod slowly. "Good. Because I need to find my edge again. And I need it soon."

Nina studies me for a beat, then slides her notes aside. "Okay. Let’s isolate it. You said you felt off during the last game. Start there."

"My timing was trash. Reaction time was a breath late, especially in the third. I saw the play forming but couldn’t execute. Like my head was underwater."

"So what are you usually tapping into, when you're sharp?"

"Instinct," I say without hesitation. "That split-second read, the quiet in the chaos."

She nods. "Let’s rebuild that. Not with breathing. Not with drills. But with memory. Walk me through your cleanest game this season, start to finish. Visuals, emotion, mindset."

It catches me off guard. No Zen crap. Just a rewind.

I close my eyes for a second. "It was against Boston. I felt like I could see the ice three seconds ahead of everyone. My body moved before my brain. It was all rhythm. Clean. Tight. My defense trusted me, and I trusted them."

"That’s it," she says. "That’s what we lock into. Not the mechanics. The trust. The rhythm. That's your edge. You already have the mechanics in your muscle memory."

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