"We'll video call every day," I promised. "I'll send care packages. I'll fill your calendar with reminders of how much we love you."
"I'll cook for you," Blake said. "Make all your favorites. Force you to eat real food."
"I'll make sure Logan doesn't drive himself crazy with optimization spreadsheets," Nolan added, which made us all laugh.
"I have a healthy relationship with spreadsheets," I protested.
"You have an obsessive relationship with spreadsheets," Mira corrected. "But we love you anyway."
We lay there in the dark, memorizing the feeling of being together, whole, complete. Tomorrow we'd start separating. But tonight, we were still us. Maybe trusting that our connection could survive distance was exactly the faith we needed.
Chapter 24: Mira
Eight months later, I stood in our Stockholm apartment, looking out at the snow-covered city and feeling ridiculously, impossibly happy.
The apartment was small by American standards but perfect for us—two bedrooms, a kitchen where Blake could cook elaborate meals, a living room filled with evidence of four lives intertwined. Logan's designer clothes hung in the closet next to my practical sweaters. Nolan's training equipment dominated the spare room. Photos covered every surface—the four of us at graduation, at Nolan's first NHL game, at Blake's Swedish league championship celebration.
My Masters research on biomechanics in winter sports was gaining recognition. I'd been invited to present at conferences, been published in respected journals, built a reputation that was entirely my own. And I worked as a consultant for Blake's team, applying my expertise while also pursuing my education.
Blake had flourished in the European league. His style of play was more appreciated here—physical but skilled, enforcing but also contributing offensively. His Swedish teammates joked about his tiny fierce girlfriend who terrorized opponents from the stands in a language she was still learning.
"Mira!" Blake called from the kitchen. "They're almost here!"
All-Star break. Two weeks when NHL schedules aligned with Swedish league breaks. Nolan and Logan had flown in yesterday, and we'd planned this reunion for months.
But instead of staying in Stockholm, we were all going to my childhood home. My parents had insisted, and honestly, I wanted them all in the place where I'd grown up, wanted them to understand where I came from.
My parents' house in Colorado was small but warm, filled with evidence of my skating career and their enduring love. My mom had prepared enough food to feed a dozen people despite there only being six of us.
"Mira!" She pulled me into a hug, then immediately moved to hug Logan, Nolan, and Blake in succession like they were her own children. "You're too thin. All of you. I'm feeding you properly while you're here."
"Mom, we're professional athletes. We eat plenty—"
"Pfft. Athletes. You all look like you haven't had a home-cooked meal in months." She turned to Blake. "You're the one who cooks, yes? Come help me. I'll teach you properly."
Blake followed her into the kitchen with the docility of someone who'd learned not to argue with mothers.
My dad appeared, looking slightly overwhelmed but happy. "Four people in this house who actually understand hockey strategy. Mira, your old man is in heaven."
For the next three days, my parents treated Logan, Nolan, and Blake like family. My mom taught them all to cook family recipes. My dad debated hockey strategy with professional players who hung on his every word like he was the oracle of sports knowledge. The domestic integration was complete and comfortable.
"Sleeping arrangements," my mom announced on our second night. "Mira's old room has a double bed. The boys can have the guest room and the couch—"
"We'll figure it out, Mom," I interrupted quickly, my face heating.
But we ended up pulling multiple mattresses into the living room, creating a massive sleeping surface where all four of us could be together. It was ridiculous and perfect and exactly what we needed.
The physical reunion after months of separation was explosive. We learned each other again—what had changed, what stayed the same, how our bodies still fit together despite distance and time.
But equally important were the quiet moments. Logan showing me his anxiety workbook progress, the techniques he'd learned, the way therapy had helped him manage panic attacks without medication increases.
Nolan teaching me about the business side of professional sports—contracts, endorsements, financial planning—preparing me for a future where I might need to understand these things.
Blake revealing he'd secretly been taking figure skating lessons in Sweden, learning proper technique from a coach who'd competed internationally. "I wanted to understand your world better," he admitted. "Not just watch from the outside."
"You're taking figure skating lessons," I repeated, slightly dazed.
"Twice a week. My teammates think I'm insane."
