Page 19

Chapter nineteen

Nina

“A lright, team. Today isn’t just about pucks and passing. It’s about trust.”

Coach Derek’s voice cuts through the buzz of the Acers’ locker room like a slapshot. The guys are in their gear, skates half-laced, eyebrows raised. Confusion radiates from every direction.

“Trust?” James mutters, side-eyeing Parker. “Is this gonna turn into one of those HR trust circle things?”

“Maybe,” Parker deadpans. “Just don’t make me cry in public, man.”

I step into the middle of the room with my clipboard and a grin. “Don’t worry, boys. No crying. Yet.”

The groans come fast. But it’s playful.

“Today’s about resetting mental toughness,” I say. “No sticks. No pucks. Just each other.”

Ethan groans louder. “Is this gonna involve hugging?”

“Only if you drop your teammate during the trust fall,” I shoot back.

James fake-gags.

Coach claps his hands. “Let’s go. Stretch it out. Then we hit the mats and Dr. Nina will take over.”

We start with trust exercises. The guys pair up, and I match them strategically to stir up both challenge and laughter. Alex stands across from Ethan, arms crossed, brow raised.

“You drop me, I’m filing a petition to make you a back-up goalie,” he warns, shooting Ethan a glare. “See how you like being on the other side of the puck.”

Ethan laughs. “Petty. I respect it.”

James and Parker wobble through their turn with more noise than grace, James shrieking, "Don't drop me, man! If I fall on my ass, I’m kicking your ass straight into next season!" and Parker mumbling, "If I let go, it’s for character development."

Across the mats, Connor and Mikey are already arguing over who’s heavier while Dillon calls out directions like a coach hyped on caffeine. I keep moving between pairs, offering the occasional cue or sarcastic jab.

“Who’s guiding who here?” I ask, watching James spin in a full circle.

“I’m giving Parker a chance to see life from my perspective,” he yells.

Parker rolls his eyes. “Your perspective is dizzying.”

Alex hesitates just a second before he lets himself fall. Ethan catches him clean, and Alex claps him on the back without a word.

"Nice job you two!" I say with encouragement.

Next, we head out onto the ice. The cones are already set up. The guys laugh when I pull out blindfolds.

“You’re kidding,” Connor says.

“Not even a little,” I reply. “Your partner will guide you. With words. No touching. No peeking.”

Parker’s guiding James. “Alright, forward. Little left—no, your other left, nimrod!”

“I’m trusting you with my life and I’m thinking that you don’t know left from right,” James grumbles.

Laughter echoes across the ice. The guys stumble, bump cones, and curse, but slowly, they improve.

Alex and Ethan again move like a unit. Calm, efficient. I call out their smooth execution, pointing out how well they read each other. "That's what we’re aiming for, gentlemen. Timing, instinct, trust. That kind of synergy translates straight to the ice."

Then I glance over at Parker and James, who just collided into the final cone with all the grace of a cartoon car crash. James is flailing, Parker’s cursing under his breath.

“Now, this,” I say, gesturing to their tangled skates, “this is what happens when communication fails. On the ice, it’s a broken play. In real life? Broken ribs.”

James scowls. “You trying to say I’m the weak link?”

“I’m saying,” I smile sweetly, “if you don’t figure out how to speak the same language as your teammate, you're gonna keep running into trouble. And not just in drills.”

When we finish, I gather them in a circle. “Final challenge,” I say. “Rapid response huddle. I toss out a scenario, and you give me your instinctive reaction. No overthinking.”

“You’re down two goals with three minutes left. What do you say to your team?”

James pops off first. “Get your heads outta your asses.”

“Motivational,” I deadpan.

Connor cuts in. “Let’s reset. Tighten the defense. One shift at a time.”

“Textbook,” Coach nods.

Alex chimes in. “Ref’s not calling it? Play cleaner. Stay smart.”

That one earns a few nods and a grin from me. "Alright," I say, raising a brow, "let's up the stakes." I glance around the circle and toss out a new challenge. "You're heading into overtime after blowing a three-goal lead. You've got sixty seconds with your team before the puck drops. What do you say?"

James doesn’t miss a beat. "First, I ask who forgot how to play defense. Then I tell them it’s time to shut up and show up."

I blink. "I… wow. Okay. That’s actually decent."

Coach chuckles behind me. "That might be the first thing he's said all season I don't want to fine him for."

James pumps a fist. "Progress, baby."

Parker mutters, "Still wouldn’t trust you with the last shift, though."

James flips him off without missing a beat. "Good thing it’s not up to you, sunshine."

The session wraps with laughter, ribbing, and a few dramatic bows from James.

Coach and I step forward. “One more thing,” he says. “Next week’s our bye. We’re going off-grid.”

Groans. Cheers. Suspicion.

“Two-day retreat,” I clarify. “Half hour outside Detroit. Private inn. Woods. Firepits. No skates.”

Dillon grins. “That sounds like summer camp with trauma.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And just as productive.”

The banter rolls on, but I catch Alex watching me quietly. Not laughing, not teasing—just observing. Like he’s already working the next move on the chessboard.

***

By early evening, the arena is alive with energy. Lights flash. Music pumps through the speakers. But tonight’s not just about the Acers.

It’s Life Spark Night.

Kids in Acers gear swarm the tunnel, eyes wide. Each one holds a mini hockey stick and wears a grin that says they’re ready to conquer the world.

Coach gives them a quick safety rundown, and then the doors open.

One by one, they skate onto the ice, greeted by cheers. The scoreboard lights up with each name called. It’s like the NHL Draft meets Make-a-Wish, and I blink away the emotion.

Each child gets three shots at the goal with their mini hockey sticks, aiming for prizes like team hats, autographed sticks, and VIP backstage passes. With every shot, the crowd roars, cheering on every swing, no matter the outcome. Some kids miss, some barely graze the puck, but every single one is met with high-fives and amazing support. It’s magic on ice.

Alex crouches in the crease, looking massive and goofy in his gear. But he’s not there to block. He dives, flops, dramatically oversells every miss.

It’s a wonderful spectacle.

A tiny boy with thick glasses nails one straight through the five-hole. Alex tumbles backward like he’s been hit by a cannon.

“Goalie down!” James shouts from the bench, laughing.

Alex lifts a gloved hand. “Sniper alert!”

The last girl, no older than six, scores all three.

“Trade me,” Connor jokes. “She’s got better stats.”

I stand near the ice, my hand over my chest. This is what it’s all about. The sport, the impact, the love.

And as I watch Alex help the girl off the ice, her arms thrown around his neck, I feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with the arena noise. There’s something about the way he gently lowers her to the ground, how he grins at her parents like he’s just handed over a piece of magic—that catches me off guard. It’s disarming. Hot, even. Damn it.

He turns just as he’s handing her off, and our eyes meet across the tunnel. For a second, it’s just the two of us, frozen in the chaos. He lifts his brows slightly, as if to say, “What?”

I shake my head and laugh. “You’ve got a future in public relations, Chadwick.”

He winks as he skates backward. “Only if you’re writing my speeches, Doc.”

The atmosphere is full of joy and anticipation of the game that's about to start. And now, a local high school girl is singing the National Anthem.

Suddenly, in every way that counts, I feel that we’ve already won.

***

The buzzer sounds, and just like that, the puck drops.

The first period starts with heat, both teams tight and aggressive from the opening face-off. I sit up in the press box, headset snug against my ears as Coach Derek and Max’s voices feed into one side of the line, my observations into the other.

“They’re pinching early,” Max mutters.

“I see it,” Derek answers. “Let them come—we'll use it.”

“Vision,” I murmur into the headset. “Remind them. Cue the reset.”

Max relays it down to the bench, and I see James tap his helmet and nod to Mikey.

Ten minutes in, the breakthrough comes. Mikey makes a smooth cut to the center, draws a defender, and threads the puck to James, who one-touches it through a tight seam to Dillon. Dillon zigzags past two Colorado skaters and rifles a wrist shot top shelf. Score!

“Hell yes,” Derek says into the headset, and I find myself grinning.

They’re locked in.

I watch them cycle through lines, each shift reinforcing everything we’ve drilled these past weeks. Between whistles, I see Alex reset—one gloved hand tapping his pad twice, a grounding motion we practiced. Parker taps his stick on the ice, a signal to let go of the last play. Even James, known for emotional flare-ups, skates calmly to the bench after getting checked hard. No retaliation. Just grit.

By the second period, Colorado starts pushing harder.

Parker takes a brutal check into the boards that makes the whole arena wince. He stays down for a heartbeat too long, and my pulse spikes, but then he’s up. Calm. Controlled. He skates to the bench, jaw tight but eyes steady.

“He’s anchoring,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “You trained that in. Damn good work.”

Colorado gets a power play after a questionable call, and tensions flare. James gets baited by a cheap shot, gloves twitching, but he doesn’t bite. He skates away, face neutral. The crowd boos. The penalty killers step up, and Alex makes a slick glove save to kill the momentum.

I exhale slowly.

“They’re holding,” I say into the mic. “They’re staying sharp.”

“We’ll see how long it lasts,” Derek replies. “But damn, it’s different.”

Then comes intermission.

The Zamboni rolls out as the lights dim and the spotlight turns toward the arena floor. It’s time for the Life Spark Dance Team.

The music pulses—upbeat, fierce, full of attitude. The girls march out, dressed in Acers-themed black and silver, and begin a choreographed number around the arena that mixes jazz hands with hip-hop precision. Spins, high kicks, and jumps are timed perfectly to the beat.

The crowd claps to the rhythm, then rises halfway through, cheering. Coach stands near the bench, arms crossed, mouth curled into a proud grin. Parker, wiping sweat with a towel, blinks a little too much.

“Tell anyone I’m crying, I’ll deny it,” he mutters into the headset.

“You just did,” I shoot back.

He snorts, and I can practically hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “We should make that halftime show permanent.”

When the girls finish their final pose with arms lifted and heads high, the entire arena rises to its feet. The applause is thunderous. I’m not the only one blinking fast.

I stand and clap with both hands, heart swelling. These girls didn’t just dance—they put on a show!

And then, it’s time.

Third period. Game on.

Colorado comes out swinging. They score fast due to a sloppy rebound we can’t clear. Then again, off a deflection. Suddenly, it’s tied 2-2 with eight minutes left.

Tension coils in my gut.

Alex’s posture doesn’t change. He’s calm, steady, crouched low with eyes like steel.

“Let’s see what they’re made of,” Derek says in my ear.

In the final two minutes, Colorado crashes the net. A shot rockets through traffic. Alex dives, glove outstretched and makes the save. Another shot comes from the blue line and he blocks it with his chest and smothers the rebound.

Sixty seconds. Still tied.

“Push it,” Max says into the mic.

And they do.

Off the face-off, Mikey wins the puck. He passes to James, who scans the ice, fakes left, and intercepts a Colorado pass mid-stride. The crowd roars.

James doesn’t hesitate. He cuts right, slicing past a defender, and snaps a perfect feed to Connor.

Connor doesn’t miss.

The puck flies past the goalie’s blocker, top shelf, ripping into the net with a satisfying clang .

The arena detonates.

I jump to my feet, headset sliding askew. My voice is lost in the sea of noise, fans chanting, arms thrown in the air. On the ice, the team swarms Connor, sticks raised, bodies crashing into each other in celebration.

Alex skates down from the crease, helmet off, and joins the pile with a rare grin.

From the box, I can’t stop smiling. Every second of the mental work, the tension, the push—it’s paying off. They didn’t just survive the pressure. They thrived in it.

As the final horn sounds, I lower the headset and make my way down toward the tunnel.

The energy near the locker room is electric. Reporters crowd one side, cameras flashing. The guys file through, still high from the win, jerseys soaked and hair wild. Laughter bounces off the walls.

Derek finds me just as I’m slipping out of the way.

He fist bumps me, eyes lit. “That,” he says, “was another breakthrough. Whatever you did, it worked.”

I grin, breathless and proud. “We trusted the process.”

He nods once, already half-turned to field a reporter’s question.

I pause, watching the players walk past…James tossing his gloves in the air, Parker mock-punching Mikey’s arm, Connor still glowing from the winning goal. Even Alex throws a smirk my way before disappearing into the locker room.

And for the first time, I don’t just feel like someone helping from the sidelines.

I feel like part of this team.

And that changes everything.