Page 12 of Puck Me Thrice
Through the walls, I could hear the sounds of the house: Logan's music playing something with too much bass, Blake's classical station drifting from the kitchen, Nolan's voice on a phone call that sounded professional and intense.
I was supposed to resent these hockey players. Supposed to see this situation as a temporary setback, a necessary evil on my way back to skating. But somehow, over the past few weeks, the hockey house had started feeling less like enemy territory and more like somewhere I might actually belong.
The contradiction made my head hurt.
The following morning, I boarded the team bus for my first away game, immediately overwhelmed by what could only be described as an assault on all five senses.
Testosterone. That was the first thing that hit me. Just... waves of competitive male energy radiating through the bus in visible heat distortions. The second thing was the noise—conversations happening at volumes that suggested everyone had forgotten about inside voices. Music playing from multiple sources, none of it coordinated, all of it competing for dominance. Energy drinks being consumed in quantities that should probably require medical supervision and possibly a hazmat team.
Someone threw a tape ball across the bus. It hit someone else in the head. Retaliation was swift and involved three more tape balls and creative cursing.
I stood at the front of the bus, clutching my bag and seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led me here.
"Mira!" Logan materialized beside me with the intensity of someone who'd been waiting for this exact moment. "You're sitting with us. The adults. In the back."
"The adults?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Me, Nolan, Blake. We're the mature ones."
From the back of the bus, I heard what sounded like Nolan saying "speak for yourself" followed by Blake's low chuckle.
"I need to discuss my performance anxiety management techniques," Logan continued, his expression deadly serious. "It's very important. Very professional. Nothing to do with wanting to sit near you."
"Logan!"
"Just come on." He grabbed my bag and started walking toward the back before I could protest.
I followed, hyperaware of the team's eyes tracking our movement. Whispers and snickers followed in our wake. Someone made a comment I didn't quite catch but that made Logan's ears turn red.
The back of the bus was marginally quieter—or at least, the chaos was more contained. Nolan sat by the window on one side, his posture perfect even on a bus, looking over what appeared to be opponent statistics. Blake occupied the window seat on the other side, his massive frame somehow folded into the space, headphones on but not actually connected to anything.
"Mira's sitting with us," Logan announced, as if this had been decided by committee.
"Obviously," Nolan said without looking up.
Blake pulled his non-functional headphones off and shifted closer to the window, making space. Logan gestured to the seat between Blake and the window with a flourish that was probably meant to be chivalrous but came off as slightly manic.
I sat down, immediately regretting this decision as Blake's body heat radiated through the small space between us. Logan and Nolan sat across the aisle, close enough to continue conversation but far enough that we weren't technically violating any personal space bubbles.
Except Blake's personal space bubble apparently extended approximately three inches beyond his body, because I could feel every breath he took.
The bus started moving, and the air conditioning kicked on with the force of an arctic wind tunnel. Within minutes, I was suppressing shivers, trying to look professional while my body decided to stage a protest against bus climate control.
Blake noticed immediately. Of course he did.
Without a word, he shrugged off his Northbridge Hockey jacket and held it out to me.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're shivering." His voice was soft but firm. "Take the jacket."
I took the jacket. It was massive on me, still warm from his body, and smelled like whatever laundry detergent he used mixed with something distinctly Blake—clean and woodsy and disturbingly comforting. I pulled it around myself and tried not to think about how good it felt to be wrapped in something that belonged to him.
"Better?" Blake asked.
"Much. Thank you."
He nodded and returned his attention to the window, but I noticed the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
