The next few days were a confusing mix of celebration and grief. Nolan and I had achieved something incredible—first-round draft picks, together on the same team, everything we'd worked for—but Blake's undrafted status hung over us like a cloud.
Then, a week after the draft, Blake's agent called with news.
"Swedish Hockey League," Blake said, his voice slightly dazed as he hung up the phone. "Team calledFrölunda. They want me. They value my playing style, think I can develop into more than just fighting. One-year contract, actually good money, opportunity to play meaningful minutes instead of just sitting in a penalty box."
"Sweden," I repeated. "That's—"
"An ocean away," Blake finished. "I know."
Mira was very quiet. Too quiet.
"What's wrong?" Nolan asked her.
"Nothing's wrong. It's just—" She pulled out her phone, scrolling to an email. "I was accepted to a Masters program. In Stockholm, Sweden. Sports medicine and biomechanics research. I applied months ago when I was researching all possible futures and I didn't think—"
She stopped, staring at Blake.
"You're going to Stockholm," Blake said slowly.
"You're going to Södertälje," Mira said. "Which is like a half an hour train ride from Stockholm."
"That's—"
"Fate?" I supplied. "Destiny? Cosmic alignment?"
"I was going to say convenient, but sure, let's go with cosmic alignment," Blake said, but he was smiling. Really smiling for the first time since the draft.
"So you'll live together," Nolan said, his voice carefully neutral. "In Sweden."
"And you two will be in Seattle," Mira added. "In North America."
The implications settled over us. Geography was still separating us, just in a different configuration than we'd anticipated.
"We should talk about this," I said, because talking was what I did when situations felt uncontrollable. "We should create a framework for how to maintain our relationship across continents."
"Here we go," Blake muttered, but he was still smiling.
We spent the evening negotiating our future with surprising maturity. Blake and Mira would live together in Sweden, with Mira pursuing her Masters while working part-time as a consultant for Blake's team. Nolan and I would be in Seattle, establishing our NHL careers while maintaining connection through scheduled visits and constant communication.
I created calendars—of course I created calendars—showing how off-seasons aligned, when we could meet, which holidays we'd spend together. The European league had a different schedule than the NHL, which actually created windows where all four of us could be together.
"This is insane," Mira said, looking at my detailed spreadsheet of potential reunion dates.
"This is organized," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"You color-coded it."
"Obviously. How else would you track different types of visits?"
Despite the teasing, they let me plan. Because planning made this manageable, made an impossible situation feel navigable.
"Last night together," Nolan said quietly when we'd finished our logistics discussion. "We fly out tomorrow. Blake and Mira leave for Sweden in six days. This is it for a while."
The weight of that statement settled over us.
We spent our last night together making love with desperate passion and tender promises. Each touch felt precious because of its temporary nature. Each kiss carried the weight of months of separation ahead.
"I'll miss you," Mira whispered against my chest afterward, the four of us tangled together in a bed that had somehow become our sacred space.
