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Chapter twenty-two

Alex

I ’m not a yeller.

I don’t throw sticks. I don’t punch locker doors. I don’t blame my defense, or the refs, or the puck being cursed.

But tonight?

Tonight, I want to rip my mask in half.

"Chadwick, shake it off," Parker says as he walks past me, patting my back. But his voice is tight, like he’s trying not to say what he’s really thinking.

I stare at my skates and feel the knot in my gut turn tighter. Third period, six minutes left, tie game. I let in a muffin from the blue line, a weak shot I should’ve swallowed in my sleep. I didn’t see it. I didn’t track it. I froze. It was just for a second, but that was enough.

Game over.

The locker room’s buzzing behind me with the usual post-loss chorus. James is cracking jokes, trying to ease the sting. Parker's already halfway through a protein shake. Coach did the post-game talk, short and clipped. We need more focus in the final frame. Execution matters.

I’m the reason we lost.

And every guy in here knows it.

"You okay?" James asks, crouching next to me.

"Living the dream."

He squints. "That’s your grumpy voice."

"It’s my leave-me-alone-before-I-snap voice."

"Cool, cool," he says, nodding like he’s taking notes. "So… are you gonna spiral in silence, or should I get you a bag of mini marshmallows and a sappy playlist?"

I look up at him. "Do you ever shut up?"

He grins. "Nope. You’re welcome."

I shake my head, but I’m grateful for the chirp. Kind of.

Connor walks by a second later and knuckles my shoulder. "You didn’t lose that game alone, man. Defense was slow on the rebound, and we couldn’t buy a faceoff in the third. That’s not on you."

I grunt, not ready to be let off the hook.

"Seriously," he continues, sitting next to me on the bench. "We win and lose as a team. And last I checked, you’ve saved our asses more times than I can count this season. You're allowed a human moment."

"Yeah, well," I mutter, "doesn’t feel very human. Feels like I’m the leak in the damn dam."

Connor shrugs. "Then we patch it. Together. That’s what teams do. We have each other's backs."

Ethan chimes in from across the room, "Look how far we’ve come, man. Last year, we would've been snapping sticks and ghosting each other for a week. Now? We show up, we own it, and we build back. That’s what real teams do."

He means it. Which only makes me feel worse. But also... a little lighter.

By the time I hit the showers, my brain’s already replaying the shot over and over. I see the puck fluttering. I see my glove too slow. I see the net ripple behind me.

One goal. One fracture.

But it’s still enough to unravel me.

***

When I finally get home, it’s like my body’s ready to crash but my mind refuses to shut up. I toss my bag down, change into sweats, and lay flat on the couch staring at the ceiling.

Nothing.

Then too much. The shot. The miss. The look on Coach’s face.

I even try one of Nina’s breathing exercises—inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four—but all it does is make me more aware of how tense I am.

I flip through some meditation app she once recommended and stick my phone under a pillow to block out the voice telling me I’m a failure.

Eventually, after hours of tossing and turning and mentally recapping every frame of the third period, exhaustion finally drags me under.

Sleep comes late, heavy and dreamless.

***

The next morning, after a few restless hours of sleep, I wake up still groggy, my muscles sore from tossing and turning more than from the game itself. My brain hasn’t slowed down, and the loss is still circling like a vulture.

I drive straight to the facility. I don’t call or even text. I just park, grab my bag, and walk inside like the building owes me something.

Down the hall, I notice her door’s cracked. A soft lamp glows inside.

I knock twice and step in before she can answer.

She looks up from her laptop, eyebrows rising. She’s in a dark sweater and black jeans, hair half up, no makeup. Still looks like she could slice through my ego with two words and a pencil.

"Wasn’t expecting you."

"Rough night."

She closes her laptop. "Yeah, I saw."

I drop into the chair, not bothering to ease into it. "Can we skip the pleasantries and go straight to fixing my brain?"

Nina gets up and walks around her desk. "Well, since you asked so sweetly."

I let out a breath. "Sorry. I’m… I just keep replaying it. That shot. Over and over. Like it’s on a loop."

"That’s normal."

"It’s torture."

"Also normal."

She perches on the edge of her desk. "Okay. Walk me through the moment from your point of view."

"We were tied. Six minutes left. I was dialed in, or I thought I was. Then that forward, what’s his name, Holtz? He took a lazy shot. I didn’t track it. My feet stuck. My glove lagged. I saw the puck go in, and the second it did, I felt the bottom drop out."

"What did you tell yourself?"

"That I blew it. That everyone in the arena knew I blew it."

She writes something on the clipboard. "What would you tell Connor if he missed an open net?"

I shrug. "That it’s one shift. One mistake. Move on."

"So why can’t you offer yourself the same grace?"

"Because I’m not a rookie. I don’t get passes."

"He's not a rookie either. You get human. "

That shuts me up.

She sets the clipboard down and walks over, crouching next to me like she did that first session when I tried to pretend I didn’t need any of this. Her voice softens.

"You hold yourself to a higher standard. That’s part of what makes you great. But that voice in your head—the one that says you can’t make a mistake, that if you mess up you’re worthless—that’s not discipline. That’s fear. It’s also self-sabotage. You’re punishing yourself for being human, and pretending that perfection is the price of value. It’s not."

"It feels that way."

"Doesn’t mean it’s true."

I stare at her. The gold flecks in her eyes. The way her mouth curves when she’s saying something kind and doesn’t want me to notice.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Pull me back."

Her breath catches.

I lean in a little. "Like you’ve got some secret reset button on me."

"Maybe I do," she says, voice barely above a whisper.

We’re too close. We both know it.

"Nina—"

She puts a hand on my chest, not pushing, just steady. Her palm is warm. Her fingers tremble.

"Don’t," she says. "Please."

I stop. Inches from her lips. The moment suspended.

"I wasn’t going to push," I murmur.

"I know. That’s what makes it worse."

I sit back, the space between us feeling like a canyon.

She stands, turning away to collect herself.

"This is hard for me too, Alex. Don’t think for a second I don’t feel it. But we made a deal. And I need you to trust me to keep it."

I nod, swallowing the ache in my throat. "I trust you. I just…"

She turns back, eyes soft. "I know."

There’s a long beat of silence. Then she exhales.

"Okay. Let’s work on your mental reset routine. Because that’s something you can control."

We go through a breathing pattern, some other cognitive reframing exercises and then another visualization. I close my eyes. I picture the save. I rewind the play. I reframe the narrative. Her voice guides me, steady and sure.

By the time I open my eyes, the tightness in my chest has loosened just a little.

"Better?" she asks.

"Yeah. You’re really good at this."

"I better be. You’re exhausting."

I laugh, low and grateful. "You like it."

"Don’t flatter yourself."

"Too late."

She smiles and shakes her head. "Go home, Chadwick. Take a nap or eat some food."

I grab my bag, stand slowly. "Hey, Nina?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m not letting you go. Not again."

Her lips part, but she doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

I walk out and for the first time since the puck hit the back of that net, I breathe.

Still cracked.

But not broken.