Page 63 of Puck Me Thrice
"We need to talk," he said without preamble. "About this girl you're involved with."
My stomach dropped. "How do you—"
"I have eyes everywhere, Nolan. You think I wouldn't find out about you wasting your draft prospects on some figure skater?" He said "figure skater" like it was a contagious disease.
"Mira is not a waste of anything. She's—"
"A distraction," he interrupted. "A distraction you cannot afford right now. The draft is in two weeks. Scouts are watching. Teams are making decisions. And you're playing house with some girl who—"
"Stop talking about her like that."
"—has apparently convinced you and two other players to throw away your futures for what? A relationship that will implode the moment you go pro?" He stood up, using his height and presence the way he always did—intimidation disguised as paternal concern. "I'm giving you an ultimatum. End thisinvolvement with her. Focus on your career. Or I will use every connection I have to ensure your draft position suffers."
I stared at him. "You're threatening to sabotage my career because you don't like my girlfriend?"
"I'm protecting your future from a mistake you're too young to recognize." He moved closer, his voice dropping to that reasonable tone that always preceded his worst manipulations. "Son, I've been where you are. I know how these girls work—they latch onto prospects, use you for status and money, then disappear when things get hard. This Mira is no different."
"You don't know anything about her."
"I know she's got you and two other players wrapped around her finger. I know that kind of woman—"
"That kind of woman?" My voice was dangerously quiet. "Please, enlighten me about what kind of woman Mira is."
"The kind who sees opportunity and takes it. Multiple players? That's not love, Nolan. That's strategy. She's positioning herself for—"
The door opened.
Mira walked in, having apparently heard enough of the conversation through the door. Her face was pale but her spine was straight, her eyes blazing with the kind of controlled fury I'd only seen during games.
"Please," she said, her voice icily polite. "Continue. I'd love to hear more about what kind of woman I am."
My father had the grace to look momentarily uncomfortable before his expression hardened. "Young lady, this is a private conversation—"
"About me," Mira interrupted. "Which makes it very much my business." She stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. "You were saying? About my strategy? My manipulation? Please, share your assessment with me directly instead of through your son."
"I think you should leave," my father said.
"I think you should shut up and listen," Mira countered, and I felt my heart swell with something that might have been love or might have been awe or might have been both. "Let me tell you what kind of woman I am, Mr. Smith. I have a degree in exercise science with a 3.9 GPA. I'm certified in sports psychology and biomechanics. I spent fifteen years as an elite athlete before age and betrayal ended my competitive career."
"That's very nice, but—"
"I'm not finished." Her voice was sharp enough to cut. "This season, I implemented strategic improvements to your son's team that increased their scoring efficiency, improved their defensive coverage, and directly contributed to a championship victory that has scouts looking at your son with interest he wouldn't have gotten otherwise."
My father opened his mouth. Closed it.
"I have published work in sports medicine journals. I have professional prospects that have nothing to do with hockey players or their money. I don't need Nolan's status or his future earnings. I have my own."
"Young lady—"
"And as for my relationship with your son and his teammates?" Mira's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "That's none of your business. But I'll tell you this: I love Nolan for who he is, not who you want him to be. I see his intelligence,his leadership, his capacity for care beneath the captain facade you trained him to wear. And I value those things more than his draft position or his ability to make you look good by proxy."
The room was silent except for my hammering heartbeat.
"You fear that your son will surpass your legacy," Mira said quietly, and I watched my father's face turn red. "You fear that he'll achieve things you didn't, that he'll be remembered as the better Smith. So you try to control every aspect of his life to ensure he never gets the chance to outshine you. But here's the truth, Mr. Smith: Nolan is already better than you. Better player, better person, better man. And your attempts to sabotage his happiness because you can't handle that reality? That's pathetic."
My father looked like he'd been physically struck. His mouth opened and closed several times without sound emerging.
"You should leave now," Mira said, her voice suddenly tired. "Nolan has training in an hour, and your presence is cutting into his preparation time."
