Page 56 of Puck Me Thrice
"I'm going to throw up," Blake said.
"Not helpful, Blake."
Nolan joined our panic huddle, looking far too composed for someone about to commit social fraud. "We'll just be professional. Polite. Housemates who appreciate her coaching. Nothing unusual."
"My mom is going to know," I said. "She always knows. She has supernatural parent intuition."
"Then we'll deal with it," Nolan said firmly. "After the game. Right now, we have a championship to win."
The introductions before the game were exactly as awkward as predicted.
"Mom, Dad, these are my housemates. Nolan, Logan, Blake."
My parents shook hands with each of them, my mom's eyes sharp and assessing. She lingered on Blake, who towered over everyone and looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him. Then Logan, who managed to smile charmingly despite his obvious anxiety. Then Nolan, who met her gaze steadily with captain confidence.
"Housemates," my mom repeated, her tone suggesting she knew exactly what "housemates" meant and was choosing to be diplomatic. "How nice."
"Very nice," I agreed quickly. "Okay, great meeting, everyone's met, time to get ready for the game."
"Your daughter is an exceptional coach," Nolan said, apparently deciding professionalism was the way through this. "Her strategic contributions have been instrumental to our success this season."
"She's always been exceptional," my dad said proudly, then looked at me. "We saved up to surprise you. Wanted to see you work with the team everyone's talking about."
Guilt crashed over me. They'd saved money—money they didn't have, money they needed for medical bills—to watch me at a game.
"I'm so glad you're here," I managed, hugging them both.
My mom pulled back and gave me a look that clearly said ‘we will be discussing those three large men later.’I gave her a look back that said ‘please don't.’She raised an eyebrow that said ‘oh, we absolutely will.’
Parental telepathy was the worst.
Pre-game preparation was controlled chaos. I implemented all my strategic improvements. These plays would be mine. My strategies. My contribution to their success.
The thought was immediately followed by crushing dread about the ice show decision.
Win or lose, everything changed after this game. Either I took the ice show offer and left everything I'd built here, or I turned it down and faced my parents' continued financial strain with no solution.
"You're distracted," Nolan said, appearing beside me.
"I'm fine."
"You're catastrophizing. I can tell because your right hand keeps tapping your thigh in groups of three. You do that when you're anxious."
I stopped tapping. "I'm processing multiple high-pressure situations simultaneously."
"That's a very technical way of saying you're panicking."
"I'm not—" I stopped myself. "Okay, yes. I'm panicking. NHL scouts are watching you guys. Ice show scouts are watching me. My parents are here. Everything feels too big and too important and I don't know how to—"
Nolan pulled me into a small equipment alcove, away from the team, and kissed me. Slow and thorough and exactly what I needed to stop my spiral.
"Whatever happens after this game," he said quietly, "we'll handle it together. Not just me—all of us. You're not alone anymore."
"But what if I make the wrong choice?"
"Then we'll deal with that too. But Mira—" He cupped my face in his hands. "You need to make the choice that's right for you. Not for your parents, not for us. For you."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
