Page 57 of Puck Me Thrice
Logan found me next, dragging me through his pre-game anxiety ritual—the same visualization techniques I'd taught him, but this time he walked me through them. His hand found mine, our shared anxiety creating connection instead of isolation.
Blake didn't say anything. Just appeared beside me, his massive presence solid and grounding, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder in silent support.
By the time the game started, I'd pulled myself together enough to function. Barely.
The game itself was brutal.
Our opponents played dirty from the first face-off. Late hits, high sticks, the kind of aggressive hockey that was technically legal but definitely malicious. They were targeting our NHL prospects specifically—Nolan, Logan, and Blake—trying to injure them, ruin their draft chances, eliminate the competition.
I watched from behind the bench, my stomach churning with fury and fear.
When a deliberate knee-on-knee hit sent Nolan down, I lost every shred of professional composure.
"Ref!" I screamed, vaulting over the bench. "That was deliberate! Knee-on-knee! Five-minute major! Are you blind?!"
The referee skated over, looking more amused than annoyed. "Coach Torres—"
"Don't 'Coach Torres' me! That was a textbook dirty hit! He deliberately went for Nolan's knee! If you're not going to call penalties, what exactly are you doing out here?!"
"Mira," Coach Williams said behind me. "Get back to the bench."
"Not until he—"
"Bench. Now."
I retreated to the bench, but not before shooting the referee a look that promised murder. In the stands, my parentswere staring at their composed daughter who'd just transformed into a screaming banshee.
Great. Just great.
But Nolan was okay. Shaken, limping slightly, but okay. He skated to the bench and gave me a look that was half exasperated, half fond.
"You need to stop getting on the ice during games," he said.
"You need to stop getting injured during games," I shot back.
"That's not how hockey works."
"Then hockey is stupid."
Despite the injury, Nolan returned to the ice minutes later, his jaw set with determination. My screaming seemed to have inspired something in the team—they rallied with renewed aggression, playing with a protective fury that made our opponents think twice about dirty hits.
Logan made impossible saves, his body moving with precision and confidence. Blake fought through double-teams, using his size to create space for his linemates. Nolan played through his injury with strategic brilliance that made the scouts sit up and take notes.
With two minutes left in the third period, we were tied 3-3.
Nolan won the face-off. Blake charged toward the net, drawing defenders. Logan held his position, trusting his team. Nolan passed to one of our wingers, who took the shot.
Blake tipped it in. The puck sailed past their goalie with seconds left on the clock.
The arena erupted. We actually won the championship.
The team poured over the boards, piling onto Blake in celebration. I stood behind the bench, crying like an idiot, watching three men I loved succeed at the thing they'd worked their entire lives for.
My mom found me in the chaos, pulling me into a hug. "You did this," she said in my ear. "Those strategies—that was all you. I'm so proud."
I hugged her back, crying harder, overwhelmed by pride and love and the crushing weight of the decision I still had to make.
Chapter 19: Blake
