Page 24 of Puck Me Thrice
"You're the worst."
"I'm the best, and you know it." Kate's expression turned sincere. "Mira, you deserve to explore this. You deserve to feel wanted. You deserve to make a choice based on what you want, not what makes sense or what looks good or what advances your career. For once in your life, do something just because it makes you happy."
After we hung up, I lay in bed for another hour, staring at the ceiling and trying to process Kate's words. The problem was, she was right. I did want them. All of them. And that terrified me more than any quadruple jump ever had.
The next morning, I woke up with a plan. Professional boundaries. Clear communication. A return to the structured, organized approach that had always served me well in skating.
I spent two hours creating a presentation on our upcoming opponents' weaknesses, complete with video analysis, statistical breakdowns, and strategic recommendations. It was perfect. Clinical. Exactly the kind of thing that would re-establish me as their analyst, not... whatever else I was becoming.
The team meeting started well enough. I projected my slides onto the living room wall, and all three of them sat on the couch, attentive and focused. For the first ten minutes, I almost believed this would work.
"So, their right defenseman has a tell," I explained, pointing to a video clip. "See how he shifts his weight before transitioning? If you watch for it, you can anticipate his moves."
"That's brilliant," Logan said, and I made the mistake of meeting his eyes. The warmth there was entirely unprofessional.
I cleared my throat. "Yes. Well. The key is recognizing the pattern before—"
"Harper, let's see how much you've learned about hockey while doing your documentary by demonstrating checking techniques to these kids with Mark," Blake suddenly announced, echoing something a coach must have once said to someone.
I blinked. "What?"
"The checking technique you just described. It would be clearer if we could see it in action." Nolan's expression was perfectly innocent. Suspiciously innocent.
"I... suppose that makes sense. But I'd need someone to—"
All three of them stood up simultaneously. Of course, they did.
"I'll go first," Logan said quickly. "Since I'm a goalie, I need to understand defensive positioning better."
"That's the worst excuse I've ever heard," Blake grumbled. "Goalies don't check people."
"Which is exactly why I need the practice."
Ten minutes later, I found myself in the middle of the living room, furniture pushed aside to create space, trying to explain proper checking technique while Logan stood way too close behind me.
"Okay, so the key is using your body weight, not your strength. You want to—" I demonstrated the motion, and Logan moved with me, his chest against my back, his hands hovering near my waist. "Right, so you'd make contact here, and—"
"Like this?" His hands settled on my hips, warm and steady, and I forgot how to speak.
"Um. Yes. Exactly like that. Now you'd—" I tried to step away, but he moved with me, maintaining the contact. "Logan."
"I'm just making sure I understand the technique." His voice was low, amused. "You said body weight, right? I need to feel how you're distributing yours."
"That's not—" I turned to glare at him and found his face inches from mine, grinning like he'd just won the Stanley Cup. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what? Learning valuable defensive strategies from our brilliant analyst?"
Blake cleared his throat loudly. "I think Logan's got it. My turn."
Oh god.
If Logan was bad, Blake was a disaster. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound disaster who claimed he needed extra practice because "I'm bigger than most players, and I'm worried about using too much force. I need to understand the right amount of pressure."
"Blake, I really don't think—"
"Please, Mira." He looked down at me with those ridiculous puppy dog eyes. "I'd never forgive myself if I hurt someone because I didn't practice properly."
Manipulative. They were all manipulative.
