Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Nina

M y apartment should feel like a refuge, but this morning it’s just a reminder that I can’t outrun what happened. The moment my alarm buzzes, reality crashes over me like a cold wave.

The plane ride back from the road game plays on a loop in my head. It was two hours of turbulence and silence, Alex sitting two rows behind me, and not a single word was exchanged. Not even a glance. Just the gaping ache of everything unsaid.

I swing my legs out of bed and sit there for a minute, rubbing the back of my neck. There’s a knot forming that’s tight, stubborn, and all too familiar.

“There’s a line,” I mutter to myself. “I didn’t just blur it, I set it on fire.”

The kiss. The heat of it. The way he pressed me against the door like he couldn’t stop himself—and how I didn’t want him to.

God, what was I thinking?

I push up to my feet and shuffle to the kitchen, still in my oversized sleep tee, hair in a mess. I try to drown my anxiety in black coffee and protein toast, but it barely makes a dent. My mind is still in that elevator and in that hotel room.

You’re the psychologist. The adult in the room. The professional.

Right. So start acting like one.

I change into leggings and a quarter-zip, throw my hair into a tight ponytail, and grab my tablet loaded with session plans for the day. My finger hovers over the screen, tempted to cancel practice observation altogether. Stay in my lane. Breathe. Avoid the risk.

But hiding won’t fix this. I’m the one who told these guys that progress is messy, that the only way through is forward.

So I go.

***

Coach Stephens’ voice cuts through the rink the moment I step inside. “Pick it up, boys! Skate like you’ve actually seen a puck before!”

The team’s already moving through passing drills, but the energy is sluggish, off-beat.

I watch from the stands, hands in my jacket pocket to keep them warm. My tablet rests on my lap, but I’m not looking at it. I’m watching them. The team. The way they move. The way they don’t.

Something’s off.

They’re going through the motions, but there’s a drag to it, like a record playing half a beat too slowly. Passes that should be crisp are sloppy. Footwork is hesitant. Even Parker looks less centered than usual.

And Alex... he’s sharp, but not surgical. His saves lack that extra edge. It’s just enough to notice. Just enough to worry.

Coach claps his hands and calls out, "Nina, you're up. Let’s see if your magic resets their heads."

“Alright, guys. We’re switching gears. Mind on ice is just as important as muscle. You know the drill. We are going to do a mindful meditation and visualization again today.”

Sounds good, right? Except when the person leading it is a mental dumpster fire.

I cue the music. Low, rhythmic tones. The sound of breath and water, meant to ground the body in presence.

Mine skips like a rock across the surface.

“Everyone find a seat on a bleacher. Sit or lie down—whatever gets you centered. Close your eyes if you’re comfortable.”

I walk among them as I speak, my voice calm, measured.

“Start with your breath. In through the nose, slow and steady. Hold it. Let it go. Again. Inhale… hold… exhale.”

The space gradually quiets, the music a soft thrum behind my words.

“Visualize the ice. Feel the skates under you, the grip of the stick in your hand. Your body moving exactly how you trained it to. Controlled. Focused. Present.”

Some of them actually settle. Shoulders drop. James peeks one eye open but closes it quickly when I pass.

I cue up the next section. “Now picture a moment in the game where things get chaotic. Breathe into that chaos. You don’t chase it. You anchor yourself. Feel your power in the stillness.”

I finish the cycle and let the silence ride for a moment longer before quietly saying, “Alright. Bring it back. Breathe in. And out. Open your eyes.”

Not perfect. But better. They may not know it yet, but their bodies felt it.

My eyes land on Alex for a second. He’s watching me.

I look away before our eyes lock. Too late. My stomach flips, and I nearly trip over Parker's hockey stick.

Focus, Nina.

You tell them to be present and let go of distractions.

Be the example.

But I can feel the disconnect humming beneath the surface as the guys return to the ice. The air feels heavier today. James glides by the bench, slowing just enough to mutter, “Vibes are weird today. Someone steal our playlist or is there vodka in our gatorade?”

Laughter bubbles from a few teammates, but it’s muted.

They know. Maybe not the specifics, but they know something’s off.

I press my lips together and don’t answer.

***

I take the long way to my office.

Every hallway feels like a minefield. Every corner could lead to Alex. And I’m not ready. Not after that look this morning in the rink. That slight tilt of his head like he was about to say something but didn’t.

I duck into my office, close the door, and pretend to be absorbed in group dynamics data.

He’s scheduled for a one-on-one in twenty minutes.

I cancel it.

My message is efficient: "Need more time to finalize group plans. Let’s push."

It’s a lie. And a cop-out. But I hit send anyway.

His response is short. Too short.

"Let me know."

Not no problem. Not sounds good. Just that.

I rub my forehead and stare out the window. What the hell am I doing?

Avoiding him doesn’t fix this. But facing him right now is risky and dangerous. I don’t know if I can trust myself not to fall into that heat again.

Ten minutes later, I step out of my office to grab something from the supply cabinet. I round the corner and there he is leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting. Or maybe just unlucky timing.

He straightens when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

I meet his eyes for a split second. It’s enough to see the question there. The frustration. The restraint.

“Hi.”

It’s clipped. Empty.

I walk past him.

And he lets me.

My pulse races the whole way down the hall.

I'm a coward.

***

Coach Derek’s voice booms from the bench as the puck drops, starting tonight’s home game. “Let’s go! Heads up, feet moving! Make them chase you!”

But the fire he’s trying to spark doesn’t catch.

From the first shift, the team looks… off.

Ethan over-skates a puck in the neutral zone, muttering a curse as he circles back. James charges the net with energy but no finesse, botching a clean setup from Connor. Parker takes a slashing penalty, the kind he never commits—lazy, frustrated, out of sync.

Even Alex, my ever-composed, stonewall goalie is half a second behind tonight. His glove misses a top-shelf wrister that he normally eats alive. The puck rings the back of the net, and I watch his head snap back like he’s just been punched.

My stomach churns.

Just as I’m about to stand, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Derek:

Come to the locker room before they head back out. Think they need a second voice.

I grab my tablet and head down. The hallway feels longer than usual. When I step inside the locker room, the guys are slouched on benches, sweaty and quiet.

The second intermission hits, and I watch Coach Derek pull them in hard. "Alright, boys, I need more from you, on every line. Tighten the passes, support each other, and stop skating like it's your first day on ice! This game is still ours if you act like it," he barks, pacing like a storm contained in a suit.

Then, he glances toward me and says, "Nina! You're up. They need your head magic."

I blink, startled, but move quickly. The players are still catching their breath, jerseys damp and eyes glaring with frustration.

"You guys remember what it took to win three in a row?" I say, voice steady even though my stomach’s doing somersaults. "Discipline. Energy. Focus. That third period? You’ve got to play like every play matters. Because it does."

I glance at Alex without meaning to. His eyes catch mine—and I feel it. That ache, sharp and immediate. I break the contact, clearing my throat.

"You’re not out of this. You know how to find each other on the ice. So dig deep and do it."

They nod, a few murmurs of agreement ripple across the room.

And then they stand. One by one, filing back out onto the ice.

Still, nothing changes.

The final score is 4–2. The crowd offers polite applause, but it’s laced with disappointment. Everyone knows we should’ve taken this one.

I stay in my seat long after the horn. Frozen. Fingers clenched around a pen I haven’t used. My notebook’s open, but I haven’t written a word.

Because I know what I’d write.

This is on me.

***

Later that night, I walk through my apartment in a daze. The air feels thick, like it knows what I did. I light a candle out of habit, the scent of eucalyptus and mint doing nothing to calm me.

Then I open my personal journal.

Not the work one.

The real one.

The one that knows the truth.

And finally, I write:

We kissed. We touched. I wanted it. Then I stopped it. And now it’s like I set a bomb in the middle of everything.

The team’s off. Alex is off. I’m off.

And the worst part is I don’t know if I regret it… or just regret what it cost.