"You've been doing calculations for hours. Close the laptop."
"But I need to figure out where I can live that makes sense for everyone—"
"You need to eat something that isn't coffee."
I closed the laptop with more force than necessary. "Fine. Happy?"
Blake's expression suggested he was not, in fact, happy. He was looking at me with concern that made my stomach twist with guilt.
"When's the last time you ate a full meal?" he asked quietly.
"Yesterday. Probably. I don't remember."
"Mira!"
"I'm fine. I'm just busy trying to solve an impossible problem using data analysis and increasingly desperate geographic calculations."
But I wasn't fine. I'd lost weight I couldn't afford to lose. My clothes hung loose, my face looked hollow, and I'd started getting dizzy when I stood up too quickly. The perfectionist behaviors I'd developed during competitive skating had returned with a vengeance—controlling my food, my schedule, my environment, because those were the only things I could control when everything else was falling apart.
I made it two more days before my body staged a revolt.
I was demonstrating a technique during practice when the rink tilted sideways. The ice rushed up to meet my face. Then everything went black.
I woke up in the medical room with three extremely panicked hockey players hovering over me and a very concerned team doctor taking my vitals.
"Blood sugar is extremely low," the doctor was saying. "Blood pressure is borderline. When's the last time you ate?"
I tried to remember. Couldn't.
"That's what I thought." The doctor looked at Logan, Nolan, and Blake with an expression that clearly communicatedthey needed to handle this. "She needs rest, regular meals, and honestly probably professional help for what looks like a return of disordered eating patterns."
"I don't have—" I started.
"Yes, you do," Blake interrupted gently. "And we should have noticed sooner."
They took me home. Made me soup. Sat with me while I ate under their watchful supervision like I was a child who couldn't be trusted with basic self-care.
Which, to be fair, I'd proven I couldn't.
"Talk to us," Nolan said when I'd finished eating. "What's going on?"
"I'm trying to figure out how to make this work," I admitted, my voice small. "You're all going to be drafted to different teams. I'll be pursuing my Masters somewhere. And I can't figure out the logistics of maintaining relationships across that distance while also taking care of myself and my career and—"
"So you stopped eating," Logan finished.
"I stopped thinking about eating. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Blake asked quietly.
I looked at three faces full of concern and love, and something in me broke.
"I developed these behaviors during skating," I admitted. "Controlling my food was the only thing I could control when coaches dictated my training, judges determined my worth, and Sam controlled our partnership. If I couldn't control my performance, at least I could control my body. And noweverything's falling apart again and I'm defaulting to old patterns because that's what I know how to do."
Logan sat beside me, taking my hand. "I take anxiety medication. Have been for years. Started therapy freshman year because panic attacks were destroying my ability to function. I still see my therapist sometimes."
I stared at him. "You do?"
"Yeah. It's not something I advertise, but it's also not something I'm ashamed of." He squeezed my hand. "Mental health isn't something you just tough through. Sometimes you need professional help."
