Chapter 18 Mira
The championship game arrived with the weight of approximately seventeen different futures crushing down on my shoulders.
NHL scouts filled the stands specifically to watch Nolan, Logan, and Blake. I'd done my research—I knew their draft positions, their projected salaries, the teams interested in signing them. Their futures were almost guaranteed, bright and shining with possibility.
My future was decidedly less certain.
The ice show scouts were also here, having called me two days ago to make their "final offer." Accept now, leave immediately after the championship game, or lose the opportunity forever. No pressure.
And then—because the universe apparently decided I hadn't suffered enough—my parents showed up.
I was doing pre-game prep when I saw them in the crowd. My mom in her church clothes because apparently she thought a hockey game required formal wear. My dad wearing a Northbridge sweatshirt he must have bought that morning, looking uncomfortable in the sea of screaming fans.
"Mira!" My mom waved enthusiastically, as if I couldn't see her. "Surprise!"
I waved back, my brain short-circuiting with panic. My parents were here. At the championship game. Where I'd have to introduce them to my three housemates without explaining that they were, in fact, my three boyfriends.
"Your parents are here," Logan said beside me, his voice slightly strangled. "Does that mean—"
"We're about to have the most awkward introduction of my life? Yes. Yes, it does."
Blake materialized on my other side, his face pale. "We have to meet your parents, while pretending we're just your housemates."
"Correct."
"I'm going to throw up," Blake said.
"Not helpful, Blake."
Nolan joined our panic huddle, looking far too composed for someone about to commit social fraud. "We'll just be professional. Polite. Housemates who appreciate her coaching. Nothing unusual."
"My mom is going to know," I said. "She always knows. She has supernatural parent intuition."
"Then we'll deal with it," Nolan said firmly. "After the game. Right now, we have a championship to win."
The introductions before the game were exactly as awkward as predicted.
"Mom, Dad, these are my housemates. Nolan, Logan, Blake."
My parents shook hands with each of them, my mom's eyes sharp and assessing.
She lingered on Blake, who towered over everyone and looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him.
Then Logan, who managed to smile charmingly despite his obvious anxiety.
Then Nolan, who met her gaze steadily with captain confidence.
"Housemates," my mom repeated, her tone suggesting she knew exactly what "housemates" meant and was choosing to be diplomatic. "How nice."
"Very nice," I agreed quickly. "Okay, great meeting, everyone's met, time to get ready for the game."
"Your daughter is an exceptional coach," Nolan said, apparently deciding professionalism was the way through this. "Her strategic contributions have been instrumental to our success this season."
"She's always been exceptional," my dad said proudly, then looked at me. "We saved up to surprise you. Wanted to see you work with the team everyone's talking about."
Guilt crashed over me. They'd saved money—money they didn't have, money they needed for medical bills—to watch me at a game.
"I'm so glad you're here," I managed, hugging them both.
My mom pulled back and gave me a look that clearly said ‘we will be discussing those three large men later.’ I gave her a look back that said ‘please don't.’ She raised an eyebrow that said ‘oh, we absolutely will.’
Parental telepathy was the worst.
Pre-game preparation was controlled chaos. I implemented all my strategic improvements. These plays would be mine. My strategies. My contribution to their success.
The thought was immediately followed by crushing dread about the ice show decision.
Win or lose, everything changed after this game. Either I took the ice show offer and left everything I'd built here, or I turned it down and faced my parents' continued financial strain with no solution.
"You're distracted," Nolan said, appearing beside me.
"I'm fine."
"You're catastrophizing. I can tell because your right hand keeps tapping your thigh in groups of three. You do that when you're anxious."
I stopped tapping. "I'm processing multiple high-pressure situations simultaneously."
"That's a very technical way of saying you're panicking."
"I'm not—" I stopped myself. "Okay, yes. I'm panicking. NHL scouts are watching you guys. Ice show scouts are watching me. My parents are here. Everything feels too big and too important and I don't know how to—"
Nolan pulled me into a small equipment alcove, away from the team, and kissed me. Slow and thorough and exactly what I needed to stop my spiral.
"Whatever happens after this game," he said quietly, "we'll handle it together. Not just me—all of us. You're not alone anymore."
"But what if I make the wrong choice?"
"Then we'll deal with that too. But Mira—" He cupped my face in his hands. "You need to make the choice that's right for you. Not for your parents, not for us. For you."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Logan found me next, dragging me through his pre-game anxiety ritual—the same visualization techniques I'd taught him, but this time he walked me through them. His hand found mine, our shared anxiety creating connection instead of isolation.
Blake didn't say anything. Just appeared beside me, his massive presence solid and grounding, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder in silent support.
By the time the game started, I'd pulled myself together enough to function. Barely.
The game itself was brutal.
Our opponents played dirty from the first face-off.
Late hits, high sticks, the kind of aggressive hockey that was technically legal but definitely malicious.
They were targeting our NHL prospects specifically—Nolan, Logan, and Blake—trying to injure them, ruin their draft chances, eliminate the competition.
I watched from behind the bench, my stomach churning with fury and fear.
When a deliberate knee-on-knee hit sent Nolan down, I lost every shred of professional composure.
"Ref!" I screamed, vaulting over the bench. "That was deliberate! Knee-on-knee! Five-minute major! Are you blind?!"
The referee skated over, looking more amused than annoyed. "Coach Torres—"
"Don't 'Coach Torres' me! That was a textbook dirty hit! He deliberately went for Nolan's knee! If you're not going to call penalties, what exactly are you doing out here?!"
"Mira," Coach Williams said behind me. "Get back to the bench."
"Not until he—"
"Bench. Now."
I retreated to the bench, but not before shooting the referee a look that promised murder. In the stands, my parents were staring at their composed daughter who'd just transformed into a screaming banshee.
Great. Just great.
But Nolan was okay. Shaken, limping slightly, but okay. He skated to the bench and gave me a look that was half exasperated, half fond.
"You need to stop getting on the ice during games," he said.
"You need to stop getting injured during games," I shot back.
"That's not how hockey works."
"Then hockey is stupid."
Despite the injury, Nolan returned to the ice minutes later, his jaw set with determination. My screaming seemed to have inspired something in the team—they rallied with renewed aggression, playing with a protective fury that made our opponents think twice about dirty hits.
Logan made impossible saves, his body moving with precision and confidence. Blake fought through double-teams, using his size to create space for his linemates. Nolan played through his injury with strategic brilliance that made the scouts sit up and take notes.
With two minutes left in the third period, we were tied 3-3.
Nolan won the face-off. Blake charged toward the net, drawing defenders. Logan held his position, trusting his team. Nolan passed to one of our wingers, who took the shot.
Blake tipped it in. The puck sailed past their goalie with seconds left on the clock.
The arena erupted. We actually won the championship.
The team poured over the boards, piling onto Blake in celebration. I stood behind the bench, crying like an idiot, watching three men I loved succeed at the thing they'd worked their entire lives for.
My mom found me in the chaos, pulling me into a hug. "You did this," she said in my ear. "Those strategies—that was all you. I'm so proud."
I hugged her back, crying harder, overwhelmed by pride and love and the crushing weight of the decision I still had to make.