Page 8

Chapter eight

Alex

T he locker room is filled with chaos, the kind that comes right before the game starts. Guys bark jokes across the room, sticks thump on benches, tape unravels in fast, practiced spirals. Sweat and adrenaline already cling to the air.

I sit on the edge of my stall, pads on, laces tight, headphones over my ears. The music thuds low and steady, just enough to keep me locked in. I watch the rhythm of my breath, not the room. The chaos is white noise.

Nina’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Not actually her voice, but the memory of something she said in our last session: You’re not alone out there.

Easy for her to say. But still... I let the words sit there.

Coach Stephens steps into the center of the room. Just his presence is enough to silence the noise. Headphones come off. He gives us a long, hard look before speaking.

"Stick to the system. Play like a team. Trust each other. That’s how we win."

No yelling. No theatrics. Just that simple. That focused.

Parker comes by and claps my shoulder pad, voice light. "Let’s go win one the old-fashioned way, huh?"

I nod. "With blood, sweat, and sarcasm?"

"Exactly," Parker grins.

A couple of stalls over, James is fiddling with the music speaker. "So, if we don’t win tonight, I’m blaming the puffer vest."

“Why, don’t you like bright yellow?”

"You know," James goes on, tossing a puck from hand to hand. "Miss Psychology was out there, pacing in that vest like she’s coaching a Hallmark Christmas team."

Laughter breaks the tension. Even I smirk.

"Hey, maybe that visualization shit works," Ethan adds, tugging on his gloves. "She got me to breathe. I think I’ve been holding it in for weeks now."

"I breathe just fine until you start talking," James shoots back.

Coach claps once. "Let’s move."

The players file out. I linger a second longer, letting my breath settle. Then I follow.

***

The first period is fast not just in pace but in sharpness. It’s the kind of edge where everything clicks, and every movement feels like instinct.

The rival team comes out swinging. One minute in, they charge the net. I drop, butterfly style, glove snatching the puck just before it crosses the crease.

The crowd roars. I barely hear it.

I focus on my breath. In through the nose. Out slow through the mouth. The way Nina taught me.

Another shot. Blocked.

A breakaway. I charge, cut the angle. Stick save. Cleared.

I’m in the zone. Not because I’m perfect, but because tonight, I’ve stopped trying to be. Look at that for fuck’s sake!

The tools Nina gave me—visualization, breath control—they’re working!

End of the first: 1–1.

Back in the locker room, the energy is electric and twitchy. Players drop into their stalls, wipe sweat, down Gatorade.

"Ethan," James calls, flinging a towel at him, "you miss another wide-open pass like that and I’m getting you an eye exam."

Ethan flips him off without looking up. "Maybe I’d see better if your head wasn’t blocking half the ice."

Chuckles scatter through the room.

I pull off my helmet, wiping sweat from my face. I catch myself glancing toward the door. No Nina. Not that she’s supposed to be there. But part of me wonders…

Coach steps up, tapping someone’s stick once on the ground.

"I like what I’m seeing out there. Stay out of the box, keep your heads together, and continue to play smart."

I look around at the guys, then speak. "If we play like we did in practice, we’re fine."

That earns a couple of nods. Even a low "Yeah" from Connor.

James mock-gasps. "Chadwick spoke in a team huddle. Someone write that down."

I smirk, tossing my towel at him. "If I start quoting inspirational posters, then worry."

"Too late," James says. "You already sound like a guidance counselor."

The banter rolls on, but something feels better. The guys lean in more and look at each other a little longer. The locker room starts to feel like a unit again.

And me... I feel it, too. A glimmer of ease…and hope.

I don’t know if we’ll win this game yet. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to carry the whole thing alone.

And maybe, just maybe, some of that is because of her.

Game’s not over.

But it’s changing.

***

“Let’s take their dignity and their two points,” James mutters beside me as we get on the ice. “I’m done playing nice.”

Second period starts like a shot of adrenaline to the chest. The crowd’s on their feet before the puck even drops, and I’m already crouched low, eyes locked in. No time to think. Just react.

A breakaway unfolds like a nightmare—fast, clean, brutal. Their center skates in solo, stick twitching with confidence. I track him hard, pulse steady, breath slow. Trust. React. Don’t chase the play. Nina’s voice, again. It’s annoying how often she’s in my head now.

He fakes left, fires right. I dive. Glove out.

SNAG.

The puck hits my glove and sticks. The crowd erupts. I pop up like I meant to do it, all casual. But inside my heart’s jackhammering.

James skates by, slapping my pads. “Look at you, Zen master! Did the puffer vest give you wings or what?”

“I’m powered by kale smoothies and spite,” I mutter.

We reset. They press again. One sneaks through the top corner, bar down. Unstoppable. I don’t even flinch. It was a perfect shot, and I know it wasn’t on me.

By the end of the second, we’re up 3–2. Connor snipes one after a filthy assist from James who draw two defenders, and still manages to float the puck over like he had eyes in the back of his helmet.

Right after, Parker digs the puck out of the corner, gets absolutely wrecked by a check that makes the boards quake, but somehow still centers it with one knee on the ice. It bounces off a skate, ricochets, and lands right on his stick again. He taps it in like it was drawn up that way.

“Parker, you beautiful lunatic!” James yells, banging his stick against the boards.

“Next time, try not to get folded like a lawn chair first,” Ethan chirps, and Parker just grins, helmet tilted and all teeth.

We’re at another faceoff. Sweat dripping. Breaths short. But for the first time in a while, I hear it—loud, clear communication on the ice. Ethan calls out screens. Connor shouts line shifts. James is directing traffic like he owns the joint.

We’re not just reacting. We’re talking. We’re synced.

Third period is an all-out war. High-speed hits. Slashes behind the refs’ backs. Gloves clenched. Every breath is a risk.

I’m reading every play like I’ve got a cheat code. Ethan eats a hit to clear the puck. Connor draws a penalty. James chirps the other team into orbit.

“Hey, number 14, your Tinder profile says ‘athletic,’ but this is giving off real ‘JV benchwarmer’ energy.”

Their guy snarls. Coach yells for a line change. Parker hobbles to the bench, grinning through the pain.

James catches my eye from center ice. “Visualize this, Chadwick!” Then he drops a no-look pass to Connor, who buries it.

I almost laugh. Almost.

The last five minutes are chaos. They throw everything at me—screens, deflections, rebounds. One bounces off a skate, heads glove-side.

I launch. Full stretch. Glove out.

Caught.

Whistle. The bench explodes.

The final horn blows. 4–2. We win.

***

The locker room is bedlam. Music blasts. Towels fly like confetti. Someone cracks open sparkling water like it’s champagne.

James throws a towel at my head. “Guess the goalie finally found his Zen.”

Ethan raises a bottle. “Must’ve been the breathing, or maybe the puffer vest.”

I shrug. “It was the green shake. Spinach. Mango. Dominance.”

Connor claps my back. “You were a wall out there, man. And, everyone stepped up.”

Parker adds, “That’s how it’s done. We played like we meant it.”

They keep it rolling—chirping, fist bumps, locker room towels snapping like whips. I’m part of it again. Not just the guy at the back. Part of the unit.

Then Coach steps in and the noise dials down fast.

“Great game, guys! That’s the team I know. The one that fights for each other and doesn’t quit.” His gaze sweeps the room. “Let’s carry it forward.”

Coach grins and turns to leave. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to have a nice steak dinner with Lizzie."

Ethan snorts. "Have fun, Coach. Just don’t let Lizzie ghost you mid-steak."

Coach smirks. "Ghost? Please. I don’t get ghosted mid-appetizer—hell, I don’t get ghosted at all. Some of us have game, Ethan."

Laughter erupts. Even I crack a smile.

***

Later, when the room is empty, gear stripped, shower steam still in the air, I sit alone on the bench, stick resting on my knees. My heartbeat is finally slowing down.

I think about the game. The saves. The shift in the team. The shift in me.

My mind was clear out there tonight. The pressure didn’t crush me.

And I know damn well that has everything to do with those sessions. With her.

I remember that nod I gave her after the ice visualization. How she didn’t flinch. Just nodded back like she expected it.

She’s getting through to me.

And I hate how much I don’t hate it.

Can’t let it matter.

But it’s starting to.

If she’s really getting in my head, what the hell happens next?