"Anything."
"I've only kissed one person in my entire life. Sam. And even that felt performative, like I was following a script instead of experiencing genuine connection." She laughed, but it sounded sad. "I've spent so much time on ice, training and competing, that I completely missed normal adolescence. Dating, parties, learning who I am outside of skating—I skipped all of it."
"That doesn't make you broken," I said.
"No, but it makes me feel stunted. Like I'm playing at being an adult without understanding the fundamental rules everyone else learned through normal teenage experiences." She squeezed my hand. "Sam was supposed to fill that gap. He was supposed to be my person. But instead, he reinforced my worst fears about being fundamentally unloveable outside of my utility as a skating partner."
"You're not unloveable," I said fiercely. "You're—" I stopped myself before I said too much, before I admitted things I wasn't sure I had the right to admit.
"I'm what?" she prompted.
"Amazing," I said simply. "You're amazing, Mira. Anyone who can't see that is an idiot."
She smiled, and in the dimmed lighting of my bedroom at whatever ungodly hour of the morning it was, she looked almost ethereal.
"Tell me about trust," she said suddenly. "In hockey. How do you learn to depend on each other when the game is so violent?"
I thought about it, trying to put into words something I'd only ever felt instinctively. "There are implicit contracts in team play. I know Nolan will always back me up in a fight, even when the odds are bad. Logan trusts that the defense will protect his goal, that we won't hang him out to dry. It's not about never getting hurt—we all get hurt. It's about knowing that when you go down, someone will be there."
"Like pairs skating," Mira said thoughtfully. "The trust required to throw your body into someone's hands, knowing they'll catch you. Knowing they won't drop you, even when you're spinning at high speed and one mistake could cause serious injury."
She stood up and started demonstrating basic lift positions, her body moving with unconscious grace even while explaining technical details. I watched, fascinated, as she described the biomechanics of trust—how a partner has to believe absolutely in the other person's competence and commitment.
"Show me," I said on impulse.
She stopped moving. "What?"
"Teach me. I'm strong enough to support you, right? Even without training?"
Mira looked skeptical but also intrigued. "Blake, you have a concussion."
"Which you're monitoring. And which is feeling much better." Both true statements, even if I'd been exaggerating symptoms earlier. "Come on. I want to understand what you're talking about. What trust feels like from your perspective."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But we start simple. Very simple."
She positioned herself in front of me, guiding my hands to her hips, showing me exactly where to hold, how to support her weight, the precise angle required for safety.
"You're going to lift me straight up," she instructed. "Keep your core engaged, your back straight. I'll maintain position. Ready?"
"Ready."
I lifted her easily—she barely weighed anything, and my strength made the movement almost effortless. She rose above me, her back arching gracefully, her body held in perfect position.
"That's good," she said, her voice steady despite being suspended in the air. "Now hold for five seconds."
I held her, my hands firm on her waist, my focus absolute on keeping her safe. Five seconds stretched into ten, neither of us ready to end the moment.
"You can put me down now," she said softly.
I lowered her carefully, and when her feet touched the ground, she was smiling.
"Again?" I asked hopefully.
"Again."
We practiced for the next hour, Mira walking me through increasingly complex positions, her confidence growing as she realized I could support her weight without straining. Soon she was suspended above my head in positions that probably looked more complicated than they were, her body a study in graceful lines and absolute trust.
I held her above me, her back arched beautifully, her complete trust in my ability to keep her safe evident in every line of her body. My hands were firm on her waist, my muscles engaged but not struggling, my entire focus on this moment, this woman, this perfect expression of trust and connection.
