Page 17

Chapter seventeen

Nina

"T hey look good today," Coach Stephens mutters beside me, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the Acers finishing warmups on the ice.

"Sharp. More focused than last week," I say, flipping through my notes, half-listening to the echo of sticks clacking and skates carving the ice.

Coach shifts his weight slightly toward me, gaze tightening. "You think they're ready to lock this in?" he asks, voice low but serious. "This one matters, Nina. If we win tonight, we clinch. Playoffs are on the line. Everything we’ve built all season can be riding on this game."

I nod, eyes scanning the lines forming up. This is what I came early for: checking in with the staff, reviewing cue cards, fine-tuning player notes, and reinforcing mental anchors from practice.

By puck drop, I’m seated in the VIP suite with some of the staff and a few foundation sponsors, a coffee in one hand and my notes in the other. It's a good view—center ice, unobstructed, the kind of vantage point that lets you read the momentum shifts as much as the plays. About ten minutes in, Dillon surprises everyone with the opening goal that’s clean, decisive, and right between the pads. The play developed fast, but it was the fluid movement of the line that really stood out. They zigged when the Devils zagged, reading each other like second nature. Tonight Dillon looks more connected than I’ve seen him all season—no hesitation, just trust. That one goal just set the tone, and you can feel it echo across the rink.

"Nice transition from Connor just now," one of the assistant coaches murmurs, leaning in.

I smile, watching the play unfold. "He's breathing through the play. Shoulders are loose. He’s not muscling the puck, he’s trusting it." Also, it's subtle, but I can tell he’s using the reset cue we drilled into the mental sessions.

Parker's next. A turnover near the boards rattles his line, but instead of reacting with frustration, he loops wide, taps his stick twice, and redirects his energy into a clean outlet pass. Anchored. Present.

"That little arc he's skating?" I say. "It’s his mental reset. He visualizes the arc before shifting perspective. We rehearsed that last week."

From a few rows up, another staffer chuckles. "Jedi mind tricks at it again."

"Hey, I’ll take mind tricks if they lead to puck control."

Then James.

He’s chirping, of course—because he’s James—but his body language isn’t agitated. He gestures toward his own chest mid-shift, and I smile. That was his cue. A silent reminder: you know who you are.

Even up here, I can feel the transformation. They’re working the system, yes. But more than that, they’re playing with presence and control.

And then there’s Alex.

Locked in. Movements clean. He resets after every whistle with a deep breath, his skates gliding in the crease like he’s dancing on instinct. Calm. Grounded. We worked hard for that.

Midway through the second period, the Devils press. Fast break, two-on-one. I lean forward in my seat.

Alex reads the play before it happens, tracks the puck across the ice, and blocks the shot like it’s second nature. Effortless.

"Did you see that read?" Derek’s voice buzzes over our headsets.

"Perfect timing," I reply. "Chadwick’s tracking clean. Parker regrouped and cleared like it was drawn on a board."

Connor scores a beauty later in the period off a broken play. With chaos swirling around him, he just finds the net. That doesn’t happen unless you’re centered.

James—God love him—nearly starts a fight after a rough hit, but he visibly swallows his reaction and skates off. He mouths something and taps his thigh.

"Reset," I whisper to myself.

Third period is high tempo. Devils throw everything at us but the Acers don’t flinch.

Connor turns a near-miss into a controlled breakout. Parker takes a hit, spins off it, and moves the puck with poise. Alex tracks the puck like it owes him money.

Then with two minutes left, James feeds it to Parker who snipes top shelf.

3–1 Acers.

The horn sounds. Victory! The Acers just clinched a spot in the playoffs!

From the suite, our section celebrates. Staff clapping, fans are pounding the glass. On the ice, gloves fly off. Fists pump. It's that kind of win—earned from the inside out.

I exhale. Hard. Because I know what this means.

They didn’t just win on the scoreboard.

They won in the mental game.

The press room is bustling post-game. A packed crowd of reporters, flashing cameras, and microphones are lined up along the table. Coach Stephens, Parker, Connor, and Alex file into their seats.

A reporter calls out from the front row, "Coach Stephens, what do you think has changed most about the team's mindset lately?"

Coach starts, per usual, voice steady. "We’re playing smarter hockey. Not just physically but mentally. Credit to the players. And to our hockey whisperer, who's been instrumental behind the scenes."

I blink from the back of the room. That wasn’t in the script. A reporter near the front lifts a hand and calls out, “Care to elaborate on that?”

Coach barely misses a beat, smirking just slightly. “Let’s just say the boys are learning a new kind of discipline.”

Another reporter jumps in quickly. “Parker, walk us through that goal. What did you see out there?”

Parker leans forward slightly, his voice all gravel and confidence. “Devils made a bad line change, I spotted the gap, and Henderson gave me a clean feed. From there, I wasn’t thinking. Just let it rip. Found the top corner.”

There’s a rumble of impressed murmurs. No mention of cues or breathing techniques, just pure hockey instinct. Alpha as hell. Parker gives a tight nod like that’s all that needs to be said.

Another reporter turns to Connor. “You’re the team captain. What does clinching the playoffs mean after the kind of season you’ve had?”

Connor’s expression sharpens, his tone serious. “It means we didn’t just survive the grind, we evolved. We stayed in it when things got rough. We held each other accountable. It’s not just about making playoffs. It’s about proving we belong here.”

The reporter turns to Alex. "Mid-season slump. You guys looked lost. But the turnaround is one of the best we've seen. What changed?"

Alex leans into the mic, his voice even and unshaken. "We stopped trying to muscle through everything and started working smarter. We’ve got someone behind the scenes who knows how to strip the noise and get us dialed in." He pauses. "Helps us remember how to show up. How to lead. How to win. And that’s made all the difference."

I freeze for a beat as half the room turns to glance at me. Reporters scribble, a few nod.

I wasn't expecting that. But I’d be lying if I didn’t feel something uncoil in my chest. A quiet pride.

Derek catches my eye from the podium. Offers a small, approving nod.

I nod back.

After the press clears and the noise fades to the low hum of arena cleanup, I step into the hallway outside the media room. I’m halfway to the exit when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Nina.”

I turn to find Derek, Parker, Connor, and Alex coming down the corridor, still half in uniform, but glowing with the victory buzz.

“You’re doing good work,” Derek says without preamble. “Don’t doubt that.”

His words catch me a little off guard. Warmth flows beneath my ribs. “Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for what you said in there.”

He nods once. “You earned it.”

Connor offers a boyish smile. “Can’t argue with results.”

Parker gives me a short, respectful nod. “Whole team feels different now. That’s you.”

Then there’s Alex.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me. Like we’re back on the ice and every wall between us is made of glass.

Derek clears his throat. “We’re having a team dinner tomorrow night. You’ve earned a seat at the table. Come celebrate with us.”

I blink, a little stunned. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “Don’t make me go through HR.”

I laugh under my breath, tension dissolving. "Okay. I’d like that."

Alex grins. "Karen from HR is gonna lose it when she sees you sitting next to me."

Parker smirks. "Thank God she’s not coming. Total buzzkill. Bet she’s got the league on speed dial. ‘Code Red: players are showing progress!’ Next thing you know, we’re getting benched for positive thinking."

Connor shakes his head with a smirk. "If she tries to bench Nina, we riot."

James rounds the corner just in time to hear that and shouts, "That’s it! Nina’s gone full Coach."

Alex shoots me a sideways look. “She’s scarier than Coach Stephens, honestly.”

"Only because I know where you hide your protein bars," I tease.

Connor groans. "Damn. She’s in our heads and our snack drawers. We’re doomed."

We laugh together, that easy camaraderie wrapping around me like a warm hoodie. For a moment, it’s not about wins or press conferences or boundaries. It’s just a team. A weird, brilliant, ridiculous team that somehow let me in.

And I don’t take that lightly.

They nod and move off down the hallway.

I stand still a moment longer, their laughter fading behind them.

I helped get them here.

And maybe I don’t need to prove anything more than that.

I exhale and turn toward the exit, heart still thumping from everything that’s happened tonight.

I’m good at what I do. This is proof. This is mine.

Now if I can just keep my heart out of the game…