Page 5 of Puck Me Thrice
I curled my hands into fists and placed the medals on the dresser, arranging them just so. This wasn't giving up. This was adapting. There was a difference.
From downstairs, I heard the front door open and close, followed by more voices. The team was arriving. Great. More people to hate my presence.
I changed into professional athletic wear—leggings and a Northbridge jacket—and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. If I was going to do this, I was going to look like someone who knew what she was doing, even if I felt like an imposter in athletic wear that said "coach" when I was very much still an athlete at heart.
Chapter 3: Logan
I had spent my entire hockey career perfecting the art of looking unbothered.
It was a survival mechanism, really. When you're the starting goalie for a Division I hockey team, when everyone's watching you, when one mistake means the difference between a win and a loss, you learn to project an image of effortless cool. Sarcastic, slightly vain, unbothered by pressure.
It was all complete bullshit, of course.
My therapist—the one my parents paid for without question because God forbid the Jones family let anyone think they couldn't afford the best mental healthcare—had called my anxiety "manageable." Which was therapist-speak for "You're a mess, but you're a high-functioning mess, so let's just work on coping mechanisms."
The panic attacks before big games? Manageable. The lying awake at night mentally replaying every goal I'd failed to stop? Manageable. The crippling fear of letting everyone down? Super manageable.
But now there was a beautiful, terrifying figure skater unpacking in the room next door, and my carefully maintained cool was developing cracks.
I watched from my bedroom doorway as Mira organized her belongings with the kind of methodical precision that spoke to deep-seated control issues I recognized intimately. Every item had its place. Her clothes hung in color-coordinated order—I could see into her room from my angle in the hallway, and yep, that was definitely organization bordering on compulsive.
She lined up her skating boots like soldiers. Four pairs. Who needed four pairs of skates?
When she pulled out a box of medals and set them carefully on the dresser, I noticed her hands shake slightly before she curled them into fists.
She was pretty in a way that was probably lethal on the ice—all sharp edges and controlled grace, with dark eyes that seemed to catalog and judge everything simultaneously. When she caught me staring, I retreated to my room with what I hoped looked like casual disinterest rather than the awkward panic it actually was.
"Smooth," I muttered to myself. "Real smooth, Jones."
That evening, the team gathered for practice. I deliberately arrived early, claiming my usual spot in the net and trying to get my head in the game. Focus on the puck and the angles. Focus on anything except the woman who was about to analyze my every move.
Then Mira walked into the rink. She was wearing athletic wear and carrying a notebook, her hair pulled back, looking every inch the professional performance specialist. She climbed into the stands and began taking notes with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness.
I proceeded to have my worst warm-up in months.
My butterfly was sloppy—I was dropping too early, leaving the top corners open. My glove hand timing was off by a fraction of a second, which in hockey terms might as well have been an hour. I was so busy trying to figure out what Mira was writing in that damned notebook that I let three easy shots past me.
Coach Williams gave me his signature disappointed head shake, which was somehow worse than yelling.
Then I decided, in a moment of what I can only describe as temporary insanity, that if Mira was going to analyze me, I might as well give her something worth analyzing.
I started showing off, making increasingly flashy saves that were technically unnecessary but looked spectacular. A diving glove save that was pure theatrics—the shot was going wide anyway, but why let facts get in the way of a good performance? A split that I would definitely feel tomorrow. A pokecheck that was more figure skating than hockey.
When I snuck a glance at the stands, Mira was writing furiously, and I felt absurdly pleased with myself.
"Jones!" Nolan skated past, his voice dripping with exasperation. "Are you auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, or are you actually going to play hockey?"
"Can't I do both?" I called back.
"No!"
Midway through practice, a wild shot from one of the sophomores rocketed toward the stands. I watched in horror as the puck sped directly at Mira's face.
My body moved before my brain caught up.
I abandoned my net entirely—the cardinal sin of goaltending, the thing that would get me benched faster than anything—and raced toward the glass. My skates bit into the ice, my legs pumping, my heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with athletic exertion.
The puck hit the barrier inches from where Mira sat.
