Page 11 of Puck Me Thrice
Oh, if only he knew.
"Very safe," I said quickly. "The athletic complex is well-maintained. Security, locked doors and very professional environment."
All technically true. I just neglected to mention that the "athletic housing" specifically meant living with three male hockey players in what could generously be described as organized chaos. My traditional parents would lose their minds. My mother would demand I move home immediately. My father would probably drive the fourteen hours to campus just to personally inspect the living situation and possibly commit murder.
"Good, good," my dad said, seemingly satisfied. Then his expression darkened. "And Sam?"
There it was.
My mom's disappointment was written all over her face. "That boy," she said, shaking her head. "We always knew he wastoo charming for his own good. Too smooth. Your father said from the beginning—"
"I said he had shifty eyes," my dad interjected.
"You said he had expensive hair," my mom corrected.
"Same thing," my dad muttered.
Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at my lips. My parents' united front against Sam was oddly comforting, even if it came too late.
"You deserve better," my mom continued, her voice fierce with protective love. "A boy who appreciates you. Who sees your value. Who doesn't..." She made a disgusted gesture.
My dad used language I hadn't heard from him since I was twelve and someone deliberately tripped me during regionals. It was creative, anatomically improbable, and deeply satisfying to hear.
"I'm fine," I assured them, and it was only partly a lie. I was fine. Or at least, I was getting there. With help from three hockey players who made me laugh and challenged my brain and looked at me like I was something precious instead of just useful. But I couldn't tell my parents that.
"Are you dating?" my mom asked, her tone carefully casual in that way that meant she'd been dying to ask this question for the entire call.
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "No, I'm very focused on work right now. Extremely focused."
I thought about Logan's technical questions that stretched past midnight, his sarcastic commentary that made my brain light up with matching wit. Nolan's strategic discussions that made me see hockey as an intellectual puzzleinstead of just violence on ice. Blake's quiet presence that felt like coming home after a long day.
"Good," my dad said firmly. "Focus on your career. On skating. That's what matters."
Right. Skating. The thing I was supposed to be doing instead of crushing over three hockey players simultaneously.
My mom leaned closer to the camera, her expression softening into nostalgia. "Do you remember when you were little? You used to practice jumps on the living room carpet. You wore a bald spot right in the middle of the rug."
I remembered practicing until my legs gave out, until my mom had to physically remove me from the living room because it was past midnight and I had school the next day.
"We had to sell the car that year," my dad added, his voice thick with memory. "To pay for the better coaches. The ones in the city."
The guilt settled over me like a familiar weight, pressing down on my chest until breathing required conscious effort. They'd sold their car. My dad had worked three jobs one year to afford competition fees and travel expenses. My mom had taken extra shifts at the hospital, coming home exhausted and still helping me stretch, still asking about my training.
"Your path back to competition," my mom said, and I felt my stomach drop. "Have you started looking for a new partner? There must be good male skaters at your level."
"I'm working on it," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "It's... complicated. Mid-season partnerships are difficult."
Difficult. That was one word for it. Impossible was another. The best male skaters were already partnered. The available ones were either too young, too inexperienced, orfrankly not good enough for the level I needed. Finding a new partner mid-season was like finding a unicorn—theoretically possible, but practically a fantasy.
But I couldn't tell my parents that their sacrifices might have been for nothing.
"The Olympics," my dad said softly. "That's still the goal?"
I looked at his face on the screen, saw the hope and pride and desperate belief that all their sacrifices would mean something. "Of course," I said, forcing confidence into my voice. "I'm working toward it. I promise."
Another lie. Or maybe not a lie—maybe just a truth I couldn't quite believe anymore.
We wrapped up the call with the usual affections and promises to call again soon. When the screen went dark, I sat in my bedroom feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
