Page 37 of Puck Me Thrice
I looked at her.
"Did you lose consciousness at any point?"
"No."
"Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy? Confused?"
"Just the normal amount."
She made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "You're bleeding everywhere."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're—" She seemed to realize we were still on the ice, surrounded by both teams and thousands of spectators and probably several camera phones. "Come on. Locker room. Now."
She marched ahead of me with the determination of a woman on a mission, and I followed because arguing with Mira when she was in medical mode was pointless.
The locker room was chaos—team celebrating, Coach yelling about discipline, trainers trying to check on various players. Mira ignored all of it, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the medical room.
She gathered supplies with brisk efficiency—gauze, antiseptic, ice packs, butterfly bandages. Her hands were steadyas she began cleaning the cuts on my face, but I noticed the slight tremor in her fingers when she thought I wasn't looking.
"You scared me," she said quietly, not meeting my eyes as she dabbed at the split on my lip. "When you kept fighting even after he hit you. You scared me."
"I had to protect them."
"I know. I know that's what you do. But watching you take those punches—" Her voice cracked slightly. "I couldn't maintain professional distance. Everyone saw me run onto the ice after you. The whole arena saw."
"I don't care."
"Blake, there are already rumors spreading online. Someone posted a video of me checking your face, looking at you like—" She stopped herself.
"Like what?"
"Like you matter to me more than you should if I'm just your coach."
"Do I?" I asked quietly. "Matter more than I should?"
Her hands stilled on my face. We were close—close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her pupils dilated slightly when she looked at me.
"Yes," she whispered.
The medical room felt too small, too intimate. Just us and the first aid supplies and the truth hanging between us.
"Why do you fight?" she asked, resuming her cleaning with slightly shaky hands. "Is it anger?"
"No." I let her work, let her careful hands map my injuries. "I fight from love."
She paused. "What?"
"Protecting my teammates—protecting my family—is the only way I know to show affection. I was abandoned as a baby. My adoptive parents died. Everyone I've loved has left, but my team chose to keep me. Fighting for them is how I prove I'm worth keeping."
Mira's eyes filled with tears. "Blake—"
"I know it's messed up. My therapist says I have attachment issues expressed through protective violence." I laughed, but it hurt my split lip. "But I can't stop. When I see someone threaten the people I love, my body just... reacts."
"I understand," she said softly.
"You do?"
