Page 2 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Coach gives me a look that says,you sure you still want this?

And I shoot one right back that answers:more than ever.

From the back of the room, a low voice cuts through the chatter. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

My eyes lock on him immediately. Alex Chadwick. I recognize him from the team photo Derek gave me last week. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’s seen this circus before and isn’t impressed. He is annoyed at best with his wall up, drawbridge pulled, and a moat full of sharks in between.

“Not quite,” I say, matching his calm tone. “But I’m a quick study.”

“Is that so?” His mouth twitches. It could almost be a smirk. Almost.

“Well,” I say, clasping my hands lightly in front of me, “I already know which one of you is going to be my favorite challenge.”

A few guys chuckle. James lets out a soft, drawn-out, “Ah, we’ve got our teacher’s pet.”

Alex laughs and turns to me. “Good luck.”

I smile. “I never rely on luck.”

He doesn’t respond. Just pushes off the wall, snags a water bottle from the table, and strolls out like I didn’t say a word.

I keep the smile on my face as I turn back to the rest of the team.

But inside a wave of nerves hits my stomach.

That one’s going to be a fun project.

By the time the guys shuffle out, leaving behind the scent of liniment, protein powder, and testosterone, I’m mentally cataloging my priorities like it’s a tactical op.

Priority one: Earn trust without demanding it.

Priority two: Get Alex Chadwick to talk.

Priority three: Try not to punch the next guy who calls me Barbie.

I follow Coach Stephens into a small office tucked beside the video review room. It’s been cleared out for me. Neutral walls. One modest desk, two chairs, and a dry-erase board that still has a scribbled diagram of a failed power play on it.

A blank slate. Perfect.

I drop my tote on the desk and start unloading. Laptop. Notepad. A stack of laminated mental conditioning checklists. And a photo of my younger brother in army fatigues, grinning with a black eye and a missing front tooth.

He’d always said pain meant progress. Not a clinical statement, but still.

Coach watches me, arms folded. “You sure about this?”

“You have doubts already?” I glance up at him.

“Not about you.” He chuckles. “About them. They’re not the easiest crew to break in.”

“They don’t need to be broken. They need to be understood. And maybe smacked upside the ego once or twice.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’ll get along with Chadwick very well, then.”

“Goalie, right?”

“Yep. One of our ice philosophers. Parker being the other."

I pause. “That’s a title.”

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