Page 69 of Puck Me Thrice
"I'm in," Blake said simply.
Relief flooded through me. "Okay. So for the next week, we're just going to be present. Together. No planning beyond the immediate future. No spreadsheets about potential cities or flight times or long-distance logistics."
"You're giving up spreadsheets?" Logan asked, mock-shocked. "Are you feeling okay?"
I laughed. "Shut up."
But he was right—giving up control was terrifying. Trusting the future instead of trying to force it into submission went against every instinct I'd developed through years of elite athletics.
Chapter 23: Logan
Draft day arrived with all the ceremony and stress of a public execution.
We sat in the arena—Nolan, Blake, and me—wearing suits that cost more than my first car, surrounded by families and agents and cameras documenting every moment of our lives changing forever.
Mira sat between Blake and my mother in the family section, looking beautiful and terrified in equal measure. She'd insisted on coming despite knowing that watching us potentially get separated would be torture.
"With the eighth overall pick," the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, "the Seattle Kraken select... Nolan Smith, from Northbridge University."
Nolan stood, his face carefully controlled even though I could see the relief in his eyes. Seattle was a good team, a young franchise, excellent prospects for development. He walked to the stage, shook hands, accepted his jersey.
One down.
"With the fourteenth overall pick," the announcer continued, "the Seattle Kraken select... Logan Jones, from Northbridge University."
My brain short-circuited. Seattle. The same team as Nolan. We'd be together.
I made it to the stage on autopilot, my hands shaking as I accepted the jersey. Seattle. Together with Nolan. Two of us staying together when we'd prepared for complete separation.
But that meant Blake was alone.
I returned to my seat just as the second round began. Blake's name wasn't called. Third round—nothing. Fourth round, fifth, sixth—
Blake's face remained stoic, but I watched his hands clench in his lap. Mira held one of them, her expression fierce with pride and pain.
Seventh round. Final picks. Blake's name wasn't called. Undrafted.
Blake stood with careful dignity and excused himself. Mira followed immediately, ignoring everyone trying to take photos or ask questions.
I found them in a hallway twenty minutes later. Blake was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his face carefully blank. Mira sat beside him, her hand in his, neither of them speaking.
"Blake—" I started.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice flat. "The NHL doesn't value enforcers the way they used to. I knew it was possible."
"You're more than an enforcer—"
"Doesn't matter what I am. Matters what they think I am." He looked at Mira. "You should go celebrate with Logan and Nolan. They just got drafted first round. That's huge."
"I'm staying with you," Mira said firmly.
"Mira—"
"Blake Morrison, I am staying with you. You can argue, but you'll lose."
Despite everything, Blake smiled slightly. "Stubborn."
"You know it."
