Page 7

Chapter seven

Nina

"I t was a mistake," I say out loud, mostly to the mug of black coffee in my hand.

It doesn't answer, just sends up a curl of steam like it's laughing at me.

The sun barely cuts through the cloudy Detroit morning as I lean against the windowsill, barefoot in an old college sweatshirt and flannel sleep shorts. Outside, the city stretches into a slow wake-up hum, but inside, my brain is already sprinting laps around the other night.

One kiss. One stupidly hot, irrational, raw kiss. And now, my skin still remembers his hands. My lips still buzz from the contact.

It was supposed to be a confrontation. A boundary-setting moment.

Instead, it turned into a line crossed.

Heat of the moment, I write in my journal. Emotional overflow. One-off.

My pen hovers. I add: But what if it wasn't?

I snap the journal shut. Nope. Not today. Not when I have back-to-back sessions, a group activity to prep, and a goalie who I hope will be willing to try visualization.

Maybe.

If I’m lucky.

And if I keep my damn distance.

***

By the time Alex walks into my office, I’ve already gone over my notes from last week, restructured his session plan twice, and brewed a second cup of coffee I probably don’t need. He’s three minutes early.

Red flag? Green flag? Emotional whiplash? Jury's still out.

"Morning," he says, voice low but not gruff. No smartass smirk. No snarky opener. He just drops into the chair across from me like he didn’t kiss me against a concrete wall forty-eight hours ago.

"Hey." I match his tone, calm and professional. No wobbles. No giveaway expressions.

He leans back, crossing his arms. "Let’s just get this over with."

Ah. There’s the sarcasm. Balance restored.

I gesture toward the small white mat rolled out between us. "We’re doing a different start today. Ever tried breathing drills?"

"I mean... I breathe every day."

"Gold star," I murmur, pulling the mat into position. "But I mean controlled breath work. Helps regulate focus."

He eyes me. "If this ends with me in a yoga pose, I’m out."

"No downward dog. Promise."

He exhales and, to my surprise, rolls his shoulders back and drops into a seated position on the mat. Slow. Controlled. Guarded, but cooperative. My fingers itch to write that down.

I sit down on the mat with him. "Close your eyes," I say. "We’re going to walk through a pressure moment. I want you to picture yourself in net. It’s the third period. Tie game. One minute left. The other team is pressing. Fans are loud. Your defense just fumbled a rebound. What happens next?"

His breathing stutters slightly. Then evens.

"I track the puck," he says quietly. "I try to square up."

"What do you feel in that moment?"

A pause. His brows draw together.

"Like I’m the last line of defense... and the first to blame."

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"You're not alone out there," I say softly. "Even if it feels like it. Hockey is a team sport, Alex. You may wear the pads, but you don’t carry the weight alone."

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.

"It’s okay," I say gently. "This isn’t about right or wrong responses. It’s just about awareness."

He shifts, tension in his shoulders, but then exhales through his nose. "Sometimes... it’s like I can’t hear anything in the crease. The crowd, the bench, even my own head…it just all goes silent. Then one wrong move and it’s like the volume slams back in full force."

I sit a little straighter, intrigued. "That kind of tunnel vision is not uncommon. But the snapback? That rush of sound and emotion? That tells me you’re internalizing more than you’re admitting."

"Internalizing doesn’t lose games."

"No, but it can slow your reactions and increase hesitation. Doubt’s a heavy thing, Alex."

He opens his eyes. "You ever played in front of twenty thousand people who expect you to be perfect?"

I shake my head. "Nope. But I’ve counseled people who have. And I’ve helped them carry that weight until they realized they didn’t have to do it alone."

His gaze drops to the mat. "I don’t talk about this stuff. Not with anyone."

"I know," I say softly. "And I won’t push you. But you don’t have to talk about everything at once. What you’ve already shared this morning is more than enough for today."

He nods.

I offer him a small smile. "But seriously? That was real effort. You showed up. You tried something new. You gave me a glimpse of what’s underneath all that armor. That’s no small thing."

Then, of course, he backtracks. "Don’t get used to it."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," I tease lightly. "Although I do have you penciled in for Monday again."

"Let me guess. Breathing exercises and visualization?"

"Maybe we’ll mix in some trust-building. Or I’ll throw you a curveball and make you journal."

He groans. "Kill me now."

I laugh. "You’ll live."

He rises and stretches his arms. "If I start quoting affirmations in the locker room, the guys will riot."

"I’ll make sure to laminate your man card before that happens."

Something changes in his expression—amusement, maybe even appreciation—but it’s fleeting. He heads to the door.

Before he leaves, he says quietly, "That breathing thing... it helped more than I thought it would."

I smile. "That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week."

He smirks over his shoulder. "You must hang with a rough crowd."

"Only professionally," I shoot back. Then I clear my throat, keeping my voice neutral. "And speaking of professionally, about the other night."

He pauses, hand still on the doorknob.

"Yeah... about that." He shifts, turning just enough to glance at me, eyes shadowed but sincere. "I shouldn’t have done it. The kiss. It was..." He trails off, then exhales. "Out of line. I’m sorry."

I nod once, slowly. "Thank you. And you're right, it can't happen again."

He starts to turn away, but then looks back with a smirk just tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Still... it was kinda hot."

My face heats instantly. "Alex."

"What? I’m not saying we should do it again," he says, palms up. "I’m just saying it wasn’t exactly forgettable."

I press my lips together, trying not to smile. "Irrelevant. We keep it professional from here on out."

He nods, eyes gleaming. "Professional. Got it. But if I ever need to visualize something that calms me down... that moment might come in handy."

"Out," I command, pointing at the door.

He chuckles as he steps through. "See you later at the team session, Coach Zen."

I shake my head, still blushing. Damn him. Even his exits are infuriatingly charming. I collect myself, grab my pen, and jot a single word in my notes:

Progress —underlined twice.

***

The chairs are arranged in a wonky circle, half of them already tipped back like the guys are allergic to sitting upright. There’s an open bag of protein bars on the floor, someone’s sweaty practice jersey hanging off the back of a folding chair, and James is already drumming a rhythm on the edge of a nearby table with his hands.

“All right,” I say, holding up an actual puck. “New rule. This little beauty is the only mic that matters. No one speaks unless they’re holding it. It’s called pass-the-puck.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Is this like musical chairs but with trauma?”

Laughter rumbles around the room. Connor rolls his eyes. “Wait for the damn puck, Henderson.”

I grin. “The prompt is simple. What’s one thing you need more of from the guy sitting to your left, or from the team in general?”

I toss the puck to James with a flourish. James catches it like it’s a grenade.

“Well,” he says, shooting a look at Ethan. “For starters, Ethan needs to stop hogging the aux cord. One more Taylor Swift warmup and I’m filing a complaint.”

Ethan takes the puck and immediately deadpans, “Maybe if you had the emotional range to appreciate ‘Anti-Hero,’ you wouldn’t choke in shootouts.”

The room explodes with laughter.

“Touché,” James concedes.

Connor gets the puck next and taps it against his palm. The laughter fades a little. He’s not the comic relief today.

“I need to stop acting like it’s all on me,” he says, voice low but steady. “Every mistake. Every loss. It’s not just me out there.”

The room quiets.

Parker, seated to his left, takes the puck. He twirls it once in his palm.

"I need guys to stop checking out when we’re down in the second. Doesn’t matter if it’s 2–0 or 4–1, we stay in it. Every shift.”

Nods follow. Less bravado now. Less sarcasm. The current of real connection starting to reveal itself. Parker passes the puck to Dillon.

Dillon shrugs and says, “I need more communication on the ice. Sometimes I feel like I’m guessing what the play is supposed to be.”

He passes the puck to Mikey, who rubs the back of his neck before saying, “I need more eye contact. I know it sounds dumb, but half the time I don’t even know if you guys are hearing me.”

Mikey passes the puck to Alex. Every eye shifts toward him.

Alex rolls the puck between his fingers. “I need the guys to trust that I’m still me. Even when I’m not perfect.”

Silence again. Heavy. Real.

Then he smirks slightly and adds, “Also… I need someone to tell James that the girl from Loco Taco isn’t just ghosting him, she just switched her phone number to avoid him.”

That gets a ripple of chuckles before he flicks the puck toward Johnson, who catches it and clears his throat.

“I need the chirping to stay on the ice. We take that crap into the locker room and it messes with our heads.”

The puck travels the circle again, this time with more honesty and a little less hesitation.

Dillon speaks up again as the puck comes back around. “I need someone to remind me we’re not just here to survive the season. We’re supposed to enjoy the damn game too.”

Mikey snorts. “You mean like James and the hot zamboni driver he keeps striking out with?”

James takes the puck, dramatically holding it up like Hamlet with a skull. “Hey, she smiled at me. That’s progress.”

More laughter.

Then James pauses. “Seriously though... I need to be reminded that we’ve still got each other’s backs. Because it’s easy to forget that when we’re losing.”

He passes the puck to Ethan, who taps it twice against his knee.

“I need to trust myself again. That’s all.”

The puck rests in his lap as the silence stretches a moment longer.

I step in gently. “It’s not about blame. It’s about seeing each other again. You’re not a roster, you’re a team. And a team doesn’t just pass the puck. They pass the weight.”

No one makes a joke this time.

I end the session on a high note, intentionally giving the puck to Alex again. He looks at it like it’s radioactive, then flips it once in his hand.

"One more for the road, Alex."

Alex twirls the puck again. “Fine. I need someone on this team to stop giving James dating advice. It's like watching a squirrel try to solve a Rubik’s Cube.”

Laughter rolls through the room.

Then, quieter, more serious: “I need to remember that just because I stand alone in the crease doesn’t mean I’m playing the game alone.”

Silence again. But this time, it’s reverent.

Then, from across the circle, James says, “You’re still a pain in the ass, if that helps. And for the record, I get ghosted way less than you, goalie boy.” He points at Alex with mock seriousness. “Pretty sure your last date left during appetizers.”

Alex smirks. “She had a gluten allergy. I ordered nachos. That one’s on me.”

James chuckles. “Eh, fair. But seriously, what you just said about being alone in the crease…that was solid. Almost made me feel things. Almost.”

The room exhales in laughter.

And I make another mental note: They’re getting there.

***

Later, we’re on the ice, just before practice. I’m standing near the boards in gloves and a puffer vest, blowing warm air into my hands while the players stretch and skate lazy laps.

“Circle up,” I call out, raising my voice just enough to echo.

There’s groaning, chirping, but they comply.

Coach Stephens chimes in. "Guys, you will be giving Dr. Erwin your full cooperation or you will be answering to me. And trust me, I won't be nearly as pleasant."

I continue. “Today, we’re walking through a perfect shift in our mind's eye. Eyes closed. From the locker room to the final whistle. Stay present. Stay with me.”

A few guys sneak peeks, smirking. James mouths something to Ethan. I don’t want to know.

“Close your eyes,” I repeat.

And miraculously, they do.

My voice softens as I guide them. “You pull on your jersey. You feel the pads, the weight of expectation. You walk the tunnel. Your skates hit the ice. Hear the crowd. Smell the rubber and sweat. You line up for the faceoff. You’re in position. You see the puck drop. You move.”

They shift slightly, muscles twitching like they’re actually playing.

“Control your breath. Anticipate. React. Trust.”

A pause.

“Goal horn sounds. You’ve won. You come back to the bench with your heads high. That’s where we end.”

When they open their eyes, something’s different. Not huge. But enough. More grounded. More… connected.

And Alex doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. He just gives me a subtle nod. Not approval. But something that is similar just beneath it.

"Coach, back to you," I say confidently.

"Thank you. Alright men, let's run some drills."

As I watch the remainder of the practice, I notice a slight change in their energy: more calm, less frantic. Focused, even if only for brief moments. Let's hope it's the harbinger of what's to come.

***

That night, back in my office, the facility almost empty, I log performance notes and track trends. There’s still work to do. But something changed today.

I open Alex’s file and stare at the last entry. Then pull a sticky note and scribble:

When he’s calm in the crease again, this team’s going to feel it.

I shut the file and let my thoughts drift to that kiss. The heat of it. The confusion. The way it rattled something loose inside me I haven’t touched in years.

I take a steadying breath, collecting myself.

I’m starting to break through to him.

But God help me if he breaks me in the process.