Page 3 of Puck Me Thrice
"Wonderful! I'm sure you'll find this to be a mutually beneficial arrangement."
I seriously doubted that, but I was too tired to argue.
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside the hockey house with my two suitcases, my medal collection wrapped in bubble wrap, and the kind of determination that comes from having absolutely no other options. The house was large—I'd give it that—but it had the distinct aesthetic of "college athletes live here" written all over it. The lawn needed mowing, there was a hockey stick leaning against the front porch for some reason, and I could hear music thumping from inside.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself that I'd survived Sam's betrayal, and the Dean's "mutually beneficial arrangement." I could survive living with hockey players.
I was definitely going to need alcohol, but first, I had to face the testosterone den with my dignity intact and my middle finger ready.
Chapter 2: Mira
I pushed open the door to the hockey house and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.
The living room looked like someone had combined a sporting goods store, a frat house, and a gym, then given up halfway through decorating. Hockey sticks leaned against every wall like someone was preparing for either a game or a medieval battle. Team photos covered every available surface—and I mean every surface. The mantle, the walls, the bookshelf that contained exactly zero books and approximately forty trophies. Most of the photos featured shirtless men holding said trophies and looking insufferably proud of themselves.
The couch had definitely seen better days. Possibly better decades. It was that particular shade of brown that could either be the original color or the accumulated result of years of questionable decisions. The coffee table appeared to be held together by duct tape, prayer, and sheer stubbornness.
And the smell. Oh god, the smell. It was a combination of athletic equipment, boy, and what I was pretty sure was Axe body spray from approximately 2019. You know that scent—the one that says "I don't know what cologne is but I know what teenage masculinity smells like"? That one.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me with expressions ranging from confusion to surprise to something that might have been horror.
The first guy I noticed sat on the couch like he was ready to spring into action at any moment, all coiled energy and controlled intensity. He had sharp features, dark hair cutmilitary-short, and the kind of posture that screamed "I take myself very seriously." He was wearing a Northbridge Hockey t-shirt that looked like it had been ironed. Who irons t-shirts? Sociopaths, that's who.
This had to be Nolan Smith, team captain. I recognized him from games I'd definitely watched while resenting every second of it.
Next to him, another guy sprawled across the couch like he was posing for an athleisure catalog. And I mean sprawled—one arm thrown over the back, one leg extended, head tilted just so. He had that artfully tousled blond hair that probably took twenty minutes and three products to achieve, sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and designer joggers paired with a cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Logan Jones. The goalie. I'd seen him make saves that defied physics and also seen him blow kisses to the crowd after shutouts. He was scrolling through his phone with studied disinterest, but I caught him glancing up at me every few seconds.
The third guy took up approximately half the available space in the room despite clearly trying to make himself smaller. He was tall and very muscular. He hunched slightly on the loveseat as if apologizing for his size, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
Blake Morrison. The dean's nephew. The guy who spent games punching people and apparently felt bad about existing in his own living room.
There was a long moment of silence where everyone just stared at everyone else. I stared at them. They stared at me. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Outside, a car drove past. The moment stretched out like taffy.
Finally, Logan broke the silence, his lips curving into a smirk that made me immediately want to slap it off his face.
"Well," he drawled, his voice carrying that particular tone that guys use when they think they're charming, "are you lost, or are you looking for someone's room?"
The insinuation was clear. I watched Nolan's jaw tighten in that way that suggested he was about to deliver a lecture about appropriate behavior and respecting women. Blake's ears turned bright red, but he didn't say anything.
I set down my suitcases with enough force to make a point.
"I'm Mira Torres," I said, channeling every ounce of the competitive fire that had gotten me to nationals three times. "Your new performance enhancement specialist. And, unfortunately for all of us, your new housemate."
I watched with deep satisfaction as all three faces cycled through confusion, disbelief, and in Nolan's case, immediate protest.
He stood up so fast I thought he might give himself whiplash. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
"There must be some mistake," Nolan said, already pulling out his phone. "Having a figure skater in the hockey house will destroy team dynamics. We're heading into our most crucial season. We need focus, discipline, and zero distractions."
His eyes flicked over me when he said "distractions," and I felt my hackles rise.
"Twirly girls don't exactly understand hockey culture," Logan added, sitting up slightly. "No offense."
"Oh, none taken," I said sweetly. "Just like I'm sure you don't understand the concept of athletic discipline that doesn't involve punching people."
