Puck Me Thrice

Chapter 1 Mira

I stood in Dean Morrison's office at Northbridge University, watching my entire life implode in what I could only describe as spectacular slow motion.

"I'm sorry, what?" I said, my voice climbing an octave I didn't know I still had access to. "Sam did what?"

Dean Morrison adjusted his glasses in that particular way administrators do when they're about to ruin your day and want to look sympathetic while doing it. "Sam has transferred to Westwood University, effective immediately."

"Westwood," I repeated, the word tasting like freezer burn. "Our rival school. The one we literally just competed against at regionals."

"Yes."

"And he transferred because...?"

The dean cleared his throat, which is never a good sign. In my experience, when middle-aged men in positions of authority clear their throats, whatever comes next is going to be either humiliating or financially devastating. Sometimes both.

"There was an incident involving Coach Brown's wife."

I blinked. Then blinked again. "I'm sorry, did you just say—"

"Coach Brown discovered text messages between Sam and Mrs. Brown that were, shall we say, inappropriate in nature."

For a moment, my brain simply refused to process this information.

Sam—my partner of three years, my boyfriend of three years, the person I'd literally trusted to throw me in the air and catch me without dropping me on my head—had been having an affair with our married coach's wife.

And somehow, in all that time, he'd forgotten to mention this tiny detail to me.

"So let me get this straight," I said, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Sam has been sleeping with Patricia Brown, and instead of, I don't know, telling me, he just... transferred schools?"

"It appears that Westwood offered him a full scholarship and the opportunity to partner with Julia Michaels."

Julia Michaels. Of course it was Julia fucking Michaels. The woman who could land quad jumps in her sleep and made me feel like an ancient, decrepit has-been.

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"The transfer was finalized yesterday."

"Yesterday." I laughed, but it came out sounding slightly unhinged. "Yesterday. And when exactly was Sam planning to tell me? Christmas? My birthday? My funeral?"

Dean Morrison had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I understand this is distressing—"

"Distressing," I echoed. "That's one word for it. Other words include 'career-ending,' 'scholarship-destroying.'"

"Yes, well," the dean continued, shuffling papers on his desk in a way that screamed I have more bad news. "That brings me to the next issue. Without a partner, I'm afraid your athletic scholarship is no longer valid."

The world tilted sideways.

"Excuse me?"

"Your scholarship is specifically for pairs skating. Without a partner, you don't have a competitive program, and without a competitive program—"

"I don't have a scholarship," I finished, my voice flat. "Or housing. Or meal plan. Or literally any reason to stay at this university."

Three years. Three years of split lips from eating ice during bad landings.

Three years of wearing nothing but athletic wear because who had time for real clothes?

Three years of 5 AM practices and ice that was never quite cold enough and coaches screaming about pointed toes.

Three years of no parties, no social life, no normal college experience whatsoever.

All for nothing.

I thought about my parents—my dad working three jobs, my mom still packing my lunches in Tupperware containers that were older than my youngest cousin.

They'd sacrificed everything for my Olympic dreams. Everything.

And I was about to call them and say, "Hey, remember how you mortgaged the house and ate ramen for five years so I could pursue figure skating? Yeah, funny story..."

"However," Dean Morrison said, and I perked up slightly because "however" was better than "unfortunately" or "regrettably" or "I'm afraid I have to ask you to vacate your dorm by Friday."

"However?"

"We may have a solution." He steepled his fingers, which made him look like a movie villain about to propose something deeply questionable. "The university's hockey team is currently without a performance enhancement specialist."

I stared at him. "You want me to work with the hockey team."

"Yes."

"The team whose players have made my life a living hell since freshman year?"

"I... wasn't aware of any conflicts."

Of course he wasn't. Because deans don't spend time at the rink at 6 AM, watching hockey players deliberately spray ice shavings during figure skating practice.

They don't hear the "twirly girl" comments or the kissing noises every time Sam and I practiced lifts.

They don't deal with the casual, everyday mockery that comes from sharing ice time with athletes who think figure skating is what happens when real sports have a midlife crisis.

"The position would allow you to maintain your scholarship and housing," Dean Morrison continued. "You'd work directly with the team on conditioning, agility training, and performance optimization. Your background in exercise science and sports psychology makes you uniquely qualified."

"Uniquely qualified," I repeated. "Is that what we're calling 'desperate and out of options'?"

"Miss Torres—"

"Let me guess. If I say no, I'm on my own. No scholarship, no housing, just a nice 'good luck with your future endeavors' and a pat on the head."

The dean had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "We would, of course, provide recommendations and assist with your transfer to another institution—"

"Stop," I said. "Just... stop. I'll do it."

The words tasted like defeat and freezer burn and every hockey player who'd ever called me "princess" while I was landing jumps they couldn't do in their dreams.

"Excellent," Dean Morrison said, brightening immediately. "I think you'll find the Northbridge Wolves to be a dedicated and professional group of young men."

I highly doubted that, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Now, there is one small complication with the housing situation."

Of course there was. Because why would anything about this day be simple?

"Due to a clerical error that unfortunately cannot be rectified mid-semester, your room in the athletic dormitory has been reassigned."

"Okay," I said slowly. "So where am I living?"

"The hockey house."

I waited for the punchline. When none came, I said, "I'm sorry, did you just say—"

"The athletic housing complex has a designated residence for senior hockey players. It's quite spacious, very professional. You'll have your own private room, of course."

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," I said, my voice taking on the kind of calm that usually precedes violence. "You want me to not only work with the hockey team—the hockey team that has spent three years making my life miserable—but also live with them?"

"With three of them, specifically. The team captain, Nolan Smith, and two alternate captains, Logan Jones and Blake Morrison. They're very responsible young men."

Blake Morrison. As in, related to the dean? Of course. Why wouldn't nepotism be involved in this disaster?

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'm afraid we cannot maintain your scholarship or provide campus housing."

So not really a choice at all. Just the illusion of choice, which was somehow worse.

I thought about my mom's face when I told her I'd made the national team. I thought about my dad showing everyone at all three of his jobs the video of my performance. I thought about giving up, about calling them and admitting defeat, about wasting everything they'd sacrificed.

"Fine," I said. "I'll do it."

"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.