Page 78 of My Pucked Up Enemy

He exhales. "That sounds like torture."

"It sounds like discipline."

He grins. "You and your damn mental toughness."

"It's why I’m here."

"It’s also why I’m screwed."

I soften then. "You’re not screwed, Alex. You’re just... in the middle of something big professionally. And I am too. We just have to focus on finishing the season first."

He stands again, slower this time, and nods. "Alright. I’ll try. No promises I won’t dream about you though."

"Just don’t mention it in session notes."

I give him a pointed look and motion to the chair. "Alright, now that we’ve drawn the lines, let’s do the actual work. What were your takeaways from the retreat? What stuck with you team-wise or personally?"

He sighs, sinking back into the seat. "Honestly? The fire pit stuff. When everyone let their guard down a little. I felt like we weren’t just teammates; we were a unit."

I nod, jotting a quick note. "That cohesion matters heading into playoffs. You’ve got a high-pressure stretch coming, and trust under stress makes the difference."

"You going to start making me meditate again?"

"Only if you roll your eyes less this time."

He chuckles, but he’s listening now.

I shift the session toward mental prep, managing nerves and reinforcing team dynamics. It’s back to what we do best. We talk through his current stress levels, how he’s sleeping, where his head goes when the puck drops. He admits he’s been replaying plays more than usual, that his head’s quieter now, but the pressure feels heavier because of it.

“I used to thrive on chaos,” he says, slapping my desk. “Now it just makes me tense, like I’m bracing for something to go wrong.”

“That’s normal when your mental conditioning starts shifting,” I say. “You’re more aware now. It doesn’t mean you’re off, it means you’re adjusting. That’s a good thing.”

He nods slowly. “Doesn’t always feel like it.”

“Because growth rarely feels good at first,” I say, meeting his eyes. “But you’re getting there. I can see it.”

We go over a short visualization script—centered around late-game pressure and how to reset after a bad shift. He closes his eyes, breathing slowly, and I guide him through the moment.

When he opens them again, something in his shoulders has softened.

"Okay," he says. "Maybe you're still a little magic."

"Just a little?"

He grins. "Don’t get cocky."

I smile, even if part of me still aches with what I can’t have.

He’s halfway out the door when he glances back.

"For the record," he says, voice quieter, "I’m already all in. Even if we’re pretending we’re not."

The door closes behind him.

And I sit there, staring at it like it might give me answers.

Because the worst part is...

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