Page 3 of My Pucked Up Enemy (Detroit Acers)

Chapter three

Nina

“S witch! Switch! What the hell was that?”

Connor’s voice is raw, echoing up through the glass from the bench. I’m six rows back, behind our visitor’s bench, trying to take notes without wincing every twenty seconds. The energy on the ice is frantic, like the team’s been plugged into the wrong voltage.

It’s chaos. Disjointed. Like they’ve forgotten how to play as a unit.

A botched breakout play turns into an easy goal for the other team, and the home crowd roars. Another notch on the scoreboard, another visible slump in the Acers’ shoulders. We’re already down three at the beginning of the second period.

I don’t sigh out loud, but I do write:

Loss of focus, emotional reactivity, poor recovery after mistakes.

Below that, I underline: Team cohesion breakdown.

On the bench, Parker tries to rally the guys around him, clapping gloves, forcing eye contact, trying to hold it together with sheer positivity. He’s saying something—can’t catch it—but his body language is pure hold the damn line .

Across the bench, James and Ethan are bickering.

“I was covering him!” Ethan snaps, slamming down onto the bench.

“Yeah, with your eyes,” James shoots back. “Maybe try using your stick next time.”

Connor cuts in before it escalates. “Shut it down, both of you.”

This is the first line talking like this! There is trouble here.

And Alex looks stoic. I can see the tension in his shoulders from here. Even from his crease, it’s obvious he’s burning up behind the mask. He’s made some solid saves, but when his defense collapses and no one clears the crease, it’s impossible to hold the line forever. Every time the puck ends up behind him, his posture stiffens just a little more, like the weight of each goal is stacking on his back.

After the fifth goal—another blown defensive assignment—he slams his stick against the post before the puck is even pulled from the net. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t look at anyone. Just turns his back to the play and skates in slow, simmering circles near the crease, like he’s trying to burn the frustration out of his system before the puck drops again.

I make another note: Alex – holding it together by sheer will. Frustration rising.

Midway through the second period, Coach Stephens calls a timeout. The first line huddles at the bench: Connor, Parker, James, Ethan. Alex stays in his crease, watching but not joining. Standard.

Coach’s voice cuts through the buzz of the arena. “I don’t care what the scoreboard says. Reset. You play smart, you play together, and you move your damn feet. Got it?”

Connor nods hard. “Let’s go. Shift the energy. We can still take momentum into the third.”

Parker claps his gloves. “Let’s get one back. Right here.”

The line jumps back on the ice, and for the next minute, something clicks. They tighten up. Connor takes the puck off the draw, threads it to James who actually passes instead of shooting, and Parker crashes the net. Rebound pops out and Connor buries it top shelf.

The Acers bench erupts. A glimmer. A heartbeat.

I jot a rare positive note: First line – flashes of cohesion. Controlled aggression. Trust.

For sixty seconds, they looked like themselves again.

Connor’s goal sparks a brief momentum shift. The next shift, the second line doesn’t let in a goal. They don't score either, but the puck stays in the offensive zone for more than twenty seconds, an improvement. Defense still looks tired, but I see better communication between the blue liners. Small corrections. Attempts at structure.

On the bench, I catch Ethan checking in with Parker during a line change. A low-five. A few words. A nod. Noted.

Another scribble on my tablet: Signs of leadership. Peer accountability increasing. Fragile but promising.

But it fades quickly. The shift doesn’t last. A neutral zone turnover leads to another odd-man rush. Sixth goal. The team sags again.

By the start of the third period, they’re running on fumes. The legs are there, but the belief is gone. It shows up in the little things like finishing checks late, second-guessing passes, and drifting out of position. The goalie can’t bail them out forever.

Still, there are slivers I cling to.

Parker blocks a shot that clearly stings. He doesn’t flinch. Gets back up, limps to the bench, and tells the rookie sitting next to him, “You do it next time.”

James doesn’t chirp once the whole third period. That alone is a red flag. Chirping is part of how he stays sharp and keeps his edge. Without it, something’s definitely off.

Connor gives a full-body push on every shift, leading by example even if the effort isn’t rewarded.

I write: Leadership behaviors emerging despite deficit. Mental exhaustion physical. Recommend urgent psychological support structure.

Final score: 6–3.

I stay in my seat while the players skate off. One by one, heads down, as they disappear into the tunnel. No chirping. No fight. Just silence.

This isn’t just a slump.

It’s a fracture.

And I’m here to fix it.

***

Coach Stephens is already in the hotel’s conference room when I arrive, pacing with a bottle of water in one hand and a folder in the other. He looks up when I knock lightly on the open door.

“Got something for me already?” he asks, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” I say, stepping inside with my tablet tucked under my arm. “But I’m not gonna lie, it’s not pretty.”

He gestures to the seat across from him. “Don’t sugarcoat it. Hit me.”

I sit, open the tablet, and slide it across the table toward him.

“They’re not just out of sync,” I begin. “They’re mentally fractured. I saw flashes of cohesion in the second period—Connor's goal, a few smart shifts—but it didn’t last. Their default setting right now is survival mode, not performance.”

He scrolls through a few bullet points. “Jesus. This much already?”

“Coach, I’ve only had three one-on-ones so far, none of them top liners. What I saw tonight confirmed what I suspected after practice. They’re carrying this slump like it’s personal failure, not a team rut.”

He leans back and sighs. “They used to love the game. Now they look like they’re dreading it.”

“Because they’ve stopped trusting each other. And themselves.”

He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what do you need from me?”

“Support,” I say. “And space. I want to run structured group sessions twice a week. Mandatory. On top of that, I’m pulling in the top line for individual work. Connor, Parker, Alex, Ethan. James too, sooner rather than later.”

“Do you think Alex is gonna sit across from you and spill his soul?”

I give a thin smile. “Nope. But he doesn’t have to spill. He just has to show up. And maybe throw one fewer emotional grenade each game.”

Coach snorts. “Fair.”

“Beyond that,” I continue, “I want to run pregame mindfulness sessions for those who opt in. Breathing work, visualization, focus resets. Plus, I want to introduce basic team-building off the ice…nothing cheesy, but something to reinforce trust. They need each other. Right now they’re playing like strangers.”

Coach doesn’t respond immediately. He just studies me for a long beat. I let him. Finally, he says, “You really believe you can fix this?”

“I don’t think it’s about fixing,” I say quietly. “It’s about reconnecting. There’s a difference.”

He exhales, deep and slow. “I’ve tried everything I know how to do on the ice. If we don’t turn this around soon, I’m going to have the front office breathing down my neck, demanding trades or demotions. You’re the last shot we’ve got, Doc. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.”

I meet his eyes. “Then we don’t miss.”

***

By the time I get back to my hotel room, I’m wiped, not physically, but mentally and emotionally. Watching a team unravel up close takes its toll, even when you know better than to absorb it.

I drop my tablet on the nightstand and sink onto the bed, letting the silence settle over me. I don’t turn on the TV. I don’t check my phone. I just sit there, letting the reel of the game play in my head again.

The difference between fatigue and collapse is razor thin.

Tonight, I saw the collapse.

They weren’t lazy. They were disconnected. They weren’t undisciplined. They were panicked. And that panic feeds on itself until their belief in themselves is the first casualty.

Alex. His posture. His restraint that looked more like suppression.

Connor. Barking directions with no traction. The frustration behind every word.

James. Silent when he should be chirping.

Parker. Playing glue while the foundation cracked beneath him.

I know who I have to reach.

Connor’s the captain, the center of gravity. Parker’s the emotional regulator. But Alex? He’s the wildcard. The one who could either break through or break apart.

And if I’ve learned anything from years of doing this, it’s that the wildcard is always where the story shifts.

Alex Chadwick moves to the top of my list.

Tomorrow, the real work begins.