"I don't know yet. Maybe Italian? Or French fusion? Something where I can be creative." He glanced at me, then back at the pot. "It's stupid."
"It's not stupid," I said firmly. "It's brave. Most people don't have dreams outside of their sport."
"What about you?" Blake asked. "What do you want after skating?"
The question caught me off guard. "I don't know," I admitted. "Skating was supposed to be everything. Now it's... I don't know what it is."
We fell into an easy rhythm in the kitchen, Blake teaching me his grandmother's recipe while opening up in a way that surprised us both. I shared my own isolation—training since age nine, homeschooled to accommodate skating schedules, never having real friends because competitors couldn't be trusted.
"I've been lonely in crowds my whole life," I said, chopping an onion with slightly less finesse than Blake. "Surrounded by people but never really connecting."
"Me too," Blake said softly. "My whole life, I've been 'the big guy' or 'the enforcer.' Never just Blake."
We looked at each other across the kitchen island, and something shifted between us—a recognition, a understanding, a connection that felt dangerously real.
The front door banged open, shattering the moment.
Nolan and Logan arrived home, their voices filling the house before they even reached the kitchen. The atmosphere shifted immediately.
"Something smells amazing," Logan said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. His eyes flicked between Blake and me, lingering on the flour somehow in my hair. "What's the occasion?"
"No occasion," Blake said, his ears turning slightly pink. "Just dinner."
"Just dinner," Nolan repeated, his sharp eyes taking in the elaborate spread, the classical music, the way Blake and I had been standing close together. "Right."
We all navigated around each other in the small kitchen, reaching for plates and utensils, accidentally brushing against one another. Every touch felt significant. Every glance feltweighted. The air between us crackled with something I wasn't sure I wanted to examine.
When we finally sat down to eat Blake's elaborate meal, the hostility from the first night had transformed into something else entirely—something warmer and infinitely more dangerous.
I found myself laughing at Logan's sarcastic commentary about our practice session, debating strategy with Nolan, catching Blake's shy smiles across the table. For the first time since Sam's betrayal, I felt something other than anger and hurt.
Chapter 5: Mira
I balanced my laptop on my knees, staring at my reflection in the black screen and mentally rehearsing my heavily edited version of recent events. My parents were about to call, and I needed to be prepared. I needed to be convincing. I needed to lie my ass off while technically telling the truth.
I was becoming a master in the art of omission.
The call connected, and my mother's face filled the screen, quickly followed by my father crowding into frame with the enthusiasm of someone who still hadn't quite figured out video call angles. They were both smiling, but I could see the concern lurking beneath—that particular parental expression that said "we're proud of you but also worried you're about to tell us something terrible."
They weren't wrong.
"Mira!" My mom's voice was warm with affection and relief. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
"Yes, Mom," I lied. I'd been averaging maybe five hours a night between training schedules, performance analysis, and lying awake thinking about three hockey players who were rapidly destroying my ability to think rationally.
"And eating?" she pressed. "You know how you get when you're stressed. You forget to eat."
I thought about Blake's elaborate dinners, the way he insisted on cooking enough food to feed a small army, how he'd started setting aside portions specifically for me with little notes about the nutritional content. "I'm eating very well, actually. Really well. Like, better than I ever have."
My dad leaned closer to the camera, his weathered face filling more of the screen. "How are your classes? Training?"
"Good. Great, even." I launched into a carefully prepared summary of my exercise science coursework, emphasizing the practical applications while strategically avoiding any mention of exactly where those applications were occurring.
"And your new position?" My mom's face brightened. "Working with the hockey team—that's wonderful experience, no?"
"It's... definitely an experience," I said, which was possibly the truest thing I'd said all call.
"Athletic housing, you said?" My dad's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it safe? Good neighborhood?"
