Page 4 of Puck Me Thrice
Blake made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly disguised as a cough.
"This is ridiculous," Nolan continued, typing furiously on his phone. "I'm emailing the dean right now. This cannot happen."
"Already did," I said. "And unless you want to argue with your uncle, Blake, I suggest you get used to it."
Blake's face turned the color of a fire truck. He opened his mouth, closed it, then stared very intently at his hands.
"Look," I said, taking a deep breath and channeling every ounce of professionalism I could muster. "I have a degree in exercise science. I'm certified in sports psychology and biomechanics. I've spent the last five years analyzing athletic performance at the elite level. I can improve your edge work, increase your agility, fix your power skating deficiencies, and probably teach you how to stop skating like you're wearing concrete blocks for skates."
The room went silent.
"I've watched your recent games," I continued. "All of them. Yes, even the embarrassing loss to Western State where you gave up four goals in the third period. And I've already identified at least three technical issues per player that are costing you speed and efficiency."
Nolan's phone slowly lowered. Logan sat up straighter, the calculated indifference dropping for just a moment. Blake's eyes widened slightly.
"So," I said, very sweetly, "where's my room?"
Nolan looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Upstairs," he said, his tone clipped. "Only available bedroom. It's connected to the shared bathroom."
Of course it was.
"The bathroom that you three use."
"Yes."
Perfect. Just perfect.
"We have a schedule," Nolan continued, and I could tell he was trying to scare me off. "5 AM wake-ups. Ice time at 6 AM. Weight training at 3 PM. Game night gatherings that run late. Team meetings, video reviews, conditioning sessions. This house is dedicated to hockey excellence."
"Sounds delightful," I said. "I'll try not to disturb your hockey excellence with my twirly girl nonsense."
Logan snorted, then tried to cover it with another cough.
I grabbed my suitcases and headed for the stairs, feeling three sets of eyes on me the entire way. The stairs creaked under my feet. A hockey stick had somehow made its way onto the landing—because apparently, they were breeding. I navigated around it and found the bedroom at the end of the hall.
It was... fine. Basic. A bed, a desk, a dresser, a window that looked out onto the street. The walls were blank white, the furniture was that standard dorm-issue style, and there was a faint smell of old Febreze and desperation.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, finally allowing myself a moment of pure panic.
I was going to be living with three objectively attractive hockey players who clearly resented my presence. I had nopartner, no real future in skating, and my ex-boyfriend was probably at Westwood right now, lifting Julia Michaels over his head while I unpacked in a hockey house that smelled like a gym bag had died and been reincarnated as room spray.
Through the door, I could hear urgent whispered conversation.
"...call the dean again..."
"...did you see her legs though..."
"Shut up, Logan."
"What? I'm just saying—"
"Well, don't say it."
I allowed myself a small smile. At least if I was going down, I was taking their peace and quiet with me.
I started unpacking with the methodical precision that came from years of travel for competitions. Every item had its place. Clothes hung in color-coordinated order because chaos in my closet meant chaos in my life, and my life was already chaotic enough, thank you very much. Skating boots lined up like soldiers—I had four pairs, each broken in for different purposes. When I pulled out my medal collection, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, my hands shook slightly.
Three national championships. Two regional titles. One Olympic trial that had ended with a torn ligament and six months of physical therapy.
