Page 15 of Puck Me Thrice
"How's your pain level?" she asked, glancing up from her laptop where she was analyzing video footage. "One to ten."
"Six," I lied. It was more like a four now, but six seemed like a number that justified her continued presence.
She made a note in her medical log. "Vision still blurry?"
"A little," I said, which was only slightly true if I squinted really hard and convinced myself I was seeing double.
Mira stood up and came over to the bed, pulling out a penlight. "Look at me."
I looked at her. That part wasn't difficult. Looking at Mira never required effort—stopping was the challenge.
She shined the light in my eyes, checking pupil response with professional focus. Her face was inches from mine, close enough that I could count the faint freckles across her nose, see the way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating.
"Follow the light," she instructed, moving it slowly back and forth.
I followed it, even though I maybe exaggerated my sluggish response just slightly. Just enough to make her lean closer, her breath warm on my face, her fingers gentle under my chin as she tilted my head for better angles.
"Your pupils are responding well," she said, but she didn't pull away. "How's the dizziness?"
"Better when you're close," I said, then immediately wanted to punch myself.
But Mira smiled—a small, genuine smile that transformed her usually severe expression into something that made my chest tight. "That's not how concussions work."
"Are you sure? Because I feel significantly better when you're within touching distance. Might be worth studying."
"You're ridiculous," she said, but she was still smiling.
She went back to her laptop, but dimmed the lights at my request—I claimed the brightness bothered my eyes more than it actually did, earning us a more intimate atmosphere that made the room feel smaller, more private.
We fell into easy conversation as the night stretched on. Between her hourly checks, we talked quietly, the darkness and privacy creating a bubble where honesty felt safer than it did in daylight.
I found myself sharing things I'd never told anyone on the team. Truths I usually kept buried beneath my enforcer persona.
"I was left at a fire station," I said suddenly, surprising myself. "When I was an infant. Someone left me in a box with a blanket and a note apologizing."
Mira's hands stilled on her keyboard. "Blake—"
"The note said they couldn't give me what I needed. That I deserved better. That they were sorry." I stared at the ceiling, the familiar ache of abandonment settling in my chest. "My adoptive parents told me when I was ten. They wanted me to know I was chosen, that they picked me specifically because they wanted me."
"That's beautiful," Mira said softly.
"It was. They were amazing. Loved me fiercely, never made me feel like a burden even when I kept growing and growing and was literally eating them out of house and home by age twelve." I laughed, but it came out hollow. "They died when I was sixteen. Car accident. Drunk driver ran a red light."
"Oh god, Blake."
"So I was abandoned twice, technically. Once by choice, once by circumstance. Both times left me alone." I finally lookedat her, found her watching me with eyes bright with unshed tears. "Hockey became my family after that. The team structure gave me belonging. But I've never quite shaken the feeling of being temporary, you know? Like I'm waiting for the moment when people realize I'm too much—too big, too violent, too damaged—and leave."
Mira set her laptop aside and moved to sit on the edge of my bed. Her hand found mine, her fingers threading through my larger ones with surprising certainty.
"You're not too much," she said firmly. "You're not."
"You say that now—"
"I say that as someone who's spent weeks living with you, watching you, knowing you. You're gentle, Blake. You cook with classical music playing and get embarrassed when someone compliments your food. You apologize for taking up space when you should never apologize for existing. You're not too much. If anything, you're not showing people enough of who you actually are."
I stared at our joined hands, my throat tight with emotion I didn't know how to process.
"Can I tell you something?" Mira asked.
