Page 36 of Puck Me Thrice
She cried into my shirt while I held her, stroking her hair with hands that had learned gentleness through cooking and now through this—comforting someone precious who was grieving the loss of her skating identity.
"I don't know who I am without skating," she whispered against my chest. "These costumes are proof I existed as something other than Sam's partner or your coach. They're proof I was an athlete, a performer, someone who mattered."
"You still matter," I said fiercely. "You matter so much, Mira."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red and puffy. "Thank you for not telling me I'm being dramatic."
"You're not being dramatic. You're grieving. There's a difference."
We sat in the laundry room until my legs went numb and Mira's tears finally stopped. I helped her pack up the costumes, making mental notes about each one.
By tomorrow, I'd have detailed photographs sent to three different costume makers. By next week, I'd have quotes for replicas. By next month, she'd have her memories back, even if she had to sell the originals.
She didn't need to know that yet.
The game against Western State was the kind of violent, chippy, aggressive hockey that made coaches nervous and fans ecstatic. Our rivals played dirty—always had, always would. Borderline hits, late checks, the kind of minor infractions that added up to major danger.
I watched from the bench as their enforcer lined up against Nolan during a face-off, talking trash I couldn't hear but could definitely interpret from Nolan's expression.
Then their guy hit Nolan late, well after the puck was gone, sending him hard into the boards.
My body reacted before my brain caught up.
I vaulted over the boards—barely registered Coach yelling my name—and was on their enforcer before he could blink. Dropped my gloves. Grabbed his jersey.
"You want to hit people late?" I asked, my voice deadly calm. "Hit me."
He swung first. I let him. Let him get in a few shots because the refs needed to see clear provocation before they'd let us actually fight. Then I returned the favor.
Fighting in hockey is controlled violence. It's not street brawling—there are rules, unspoken agreements about what's acceptable. You protect your face but you don't go for cheap shots. You punch but you don't injure beyond the immediatedamage. You fight until someone goes down or the refs break it up.
I was very, very good at controlled violence.
I landed three solid punches before we went down in a tangle of limbs and jerseys. The refs separated us, sending us both to the penalty box with matching five-minute majors.
But Nolan was safe. That was what mattered.
The game continued with increasing aggression. Every whistle brought pushing and shoving. Every face-off had players jawing at each other. This was the kind of hockey where someone would get hurt.
Late in the third period, one of their defensemen took a run at Logan, trying to crash his net and disrupt his focus. I was off the bench in seconds, inserting myself between their guy and my goalie.
"Back off," I said.
"Make me."
So I did. This fight was messier. He was stronger than their other guy, angrier, more willing to actually hurt someone. We traded punches that connected with force that would leave bruises. I felt my lip split. Tasted blood. Didn't care.
Logan was safe. That was what mattered.
When the refs finally separated us, my face was bleeding from multiple cuts, my knuckles were shredded, and I was pretty sure I'd taken an elbow to the ribs at some point. Worth it.
I skated to the bench, and through the blood dripping into my eyes, I saw Mira's face. She looked horrified and concerned and—something else. Something that made my stomach flip.
The game ended with our victory, but I barely registered the celebration. I was focused on getting to the locker room, cleaning up, pretending I wasn't dizzy from the hits I'd taken.
I made it approximately three steps before Mira was in front of me, her hands on my face, her eyes scanning my injuries with professional assessment layered over personal concern.
"Blake," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Blake, look at me."
