I landed jump after jump with technical precision softened by artistic expression. Every spiral carriedvulnerability. Every jump required faith. Every artistic beat reflected my current emotional complexity in ways I couldn't articulate with words.
I poured everything into the skating—the hurt of Sam's betrayal, the confusion of my situation with three men who looked at me like I was something precious, the fear that I was fundamentally incapable of being what anyone needed, the hope that maybe, possibly, I could figure this out.
When I finally stopped, breathing hard and crying from emotional release I hadn't meant to indulge, I discovered all three of them watching from the shadows of the rink entrance.
The shock of being observed during such a private moment should have made me feel exposed, vulnerable, embarrassed.
Instead, I felt seen—not as a role or responsibility or utility, but as myself, fully and completely.
Nobody spoke. Logan's usual sarcasm had completely disappeared, his face open with something that looked like wonder. Nolan stood with unusual stillness; his captain's control abandoned in favor of honest emotion. Blake's expression was tender in a way that transformed his intimidating presence into something gentle.
I stood in the center of the ice, still breathing hard, tears on my face. I didn't skate off the ice with my usual controlled competence. Instead, I glided toward them slowly, giving us time to process this moment, time to decide what it meant.
When I reached the boards, Logan spoke first, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"That was..." He trailed off, seemingly unable to find words. "I didn't know movement could tell stories like that."
"Your artistry," Nolan added, his voice rough with emotion. "The way you translate feeling into physical expression—I've never seen anything like it."
Blake said nothing, but his eyes were bright with unshed emotion that spoke louder than words.
I stood there, vulnerable and seen and terrified and exhilarated all at once.
"We should go home," Nolan said finally, his voice gentle.
The four of us walked back to the hockey house together through late evening cold, nobody touching but everyone hyperaware of proximity.
Chapter 8: Nolan
As team captain, I'd spent my entire hockey career prioritizing responsibility over personal desire, maintaining control through discipline and sacrifice. My father—former NHL legend, current emotional manipulator—called daily to dispense "advice" that felt more like pressure about draft prospects, maintaining the family legacy, and not becoming a disappointment like my older brother who'd washed out of professional hockey after two seasons.
The weight of expectation sat heavy on my shoulders, making every decision feel crucial, every distraction potentially catastrophic.
Mira represented the ultimate distraction, and my carefully maintained control was crumbling.
I'd gone to the athletic complex gymnasium at midnight because I couldn't sleep, because my father's latest phone call had included the phrase "don't let personal attachments derail your future", because I needed to work off the tension that came from wanting something I shouldn't want.
I found Mira attacking a heavy punching bag with surprising technical competence and absolutely zero emotional control.
Her form was decent but unrefined—clearly some training but not extensive. But her body language screamed fury and grief. She was punching with increasing aggression, her breathing ragged, her movements becoming less controlled and more desperate with each hit.
I watched from the doorway as she threw herself at the bag like it had personally wronged her, like she could punch her way through whatever was causing this breakdown.
"You're going to hurt yourself," I said, stepping into the gym.
Mira spun around, her face flushed and tear-streaked, her hands already showing signs of impact damage. "Go away."
"Not happening. What's wrong?"
Her composure shattered completely. "Sam and Julia made the international competition roster. The one I was supposed to compete in. They're taking my spot on the stage I've worked my entire life to reach."
The injustice of it made my chest tight with anger on her behalf. Sam—who'd betrayed her, who'd abandoned their partnership, who'd left her with nothing—was succeeding while Mira was stuck coaching hockey players and living in our house and watching her Olympic dreams evaporate in real-time.
"He's succeeding," she continued, her voice breaking. "He's thriving. Moving forward with his career while I'm stuck here, and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair."
I didn't offer platitudes. Didn't tell her everything would work out or that she'd find another opportunity. Sometimes situations were just shitty, and pretending otherwise was insulting.
"Hit me instead of the bag," I said.
