Chapter 9 Mira
I made it approximately forty-five seconds back in my room before my phone was already dialing Kate.
She answered on the second ring, her face filling the screen with entirely too much amusement for someone who was supposed to be my best friend. "Let me guess. The hot hockey players finally made their move?"
"How did you—"
"Mira. Sweetie. I've been waiting for this call since you sent me that first picture of the house and said, quote, 'living with three guys, totally professional, nothing to worry about.'"
I flopped backward onto my bed, staring at my ceiling like it held answers. "They cornered me in the gymnasium. All three of them. At the same time."
Kate's squeal was so loud I nearly dropped my phone. "Shut up. Like an intervention? Was there dramatic lighting? Please tell me there was dramatic lighting."
"Kate."
"Right, right, serious friend mode activated." She sat up straighter, but her eyes were still dancing. "What did they say?"
"That they all want me. That they've been driving each other crazy trying not to—" I gestured vaguely at the air. "You know."
"Jump your bones?"
"Kate!"
"Sorry, sorry. Go on."
I covered my face with my hand. "I don't know what to do.
I've never... I mean, Sam never made me feel like.
.." I trailed off, unable to articulate the difference between Sam's calculated touches and the way Logan looked at me like I was something precious, or Blake's barely restrained intensity, or Nolan's careful consideration that made me feel seen.
"Like you wanted to climb them like a tree?" Kate supplied helpfully.
"Oh my god!"
"Mira, listen to me." Kate's voice softened, taking on that serious tone she only used when it really mattered.
"What you're experiencing? It's called attraction.
Normal, healthy, sexual attraction. And I know that's a foreign concept because you spent your entire life with Sam treating you like a prop in his performance. "
"That's not—"
"It absolutely is, and we both know it. But these guys? They see you. The actual you. And your body is responding to that, probably for the first time ever, and it's freaking you out."
I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. "What if I mess it up? What if I choose wrong?"
"Who says you have to choose?"
I blinked. "What?"
Kate's grin was absolutely wicked. "Babe. You're twenty-three years old, you just escaped from the world's worst partnership, and you have three gorgeous men who are apparently willing to share. Why are you treating this like it's the Olympic selection committee?"
"Because I don't know how to be... casual. Or fun. Or anything other than focused on the next jump, the next performance."
"Exactly." Kate leaned closer to the camera. "You have spent your entire life denying yourself pleasure for the sake of perfection. Sam made sure of that. But you're not competing anymore, Mira. You're allowed to want things just because they feel good."
"But three guys?"
"Are three guys too many? Or are you just worried about what people will think?
" Kate raised an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like a pretty sweet setup.
They've already proven they can coexist without murdering each other.
They clearly respect you enough to put the decision in your hands.
And unless I'm reading this totally wrong, you're attracted to all of them. "
"Yes, but—"
"No buts. Well, except for their butts, which I assume are spectacular given the whole professional athlete situation."
"You're the worst."
"I'm the best, and you know it." Kate's expression turned sincere.
"Mira, you deserve to explore this. You deserve to feel wanted.
You deserve to make a choice based on what you want, not what makes sense or what looks good or what advances your career.
For once in your life, do something just because it makes you happy. "
After we hung up, I lay in bed for another hour, staring at the ceiling and trying to process Kate's words. The problem was, she was right. I did want them. All of them. And that terrified me more than any quadruple jump ever had.
The next morning, I woke up with a plan. Professional boundaries. Clear communication. A return to the structured, organized approach that had always served me well in skating.
I spent two hours creating a presentation on our upcoming opponents' weaknesses, complete with video analysis, statistical breakdowns, and strategic recommendations. It was perfect. Clinical. Exactly the kind of thing that would re-establish me as their analyst, not... whatever else I was becoming.
The team meeting started well enough. I projected my slides onto the living room wall, and all three of them sat on the couch, attentive and focused. For the first ten minutes, I almost believed this would work.
"So, their right defenseman has a tell," I explained, pointing to a video clip. "See how he shifts his weight before transitioning? If you watch for it, you can anticipate his moves."
"That's brilliant," Logan said, and I made the mistake of meeting his eyes. The warmth there was entirely unprofessional.
I cleared my throat. "Yes. Well. The key is recognizing the pattern before—"
"Harper, let's see how much you've learned about hockey while doing your documentary by demonstrating checking techniques to these kids with Mark," Blake suddenly announced, echoing something a coach must have once said to someone.
I blinked. "What?"
"The checking technique you just described. It would be clearer if we could see it in action." Nolan's expression was perfectly innocent. Suspiciously innocent.
"I... suppose that makes sense. But I'd need someone to—"
All three of them stood up simultaneously. Of course, they did.
"I'll go first," Logan said quickly. "Since I'm a goalie, I need to understand defensive positioning better."
"That's the worst excuse I've ever heard," Blake grumbled. "Goalies don't check people."
"Which is exactly why I need the practice."
Ten minutes later, I found myself in the middle of the living room, furniture pushed aside to create space, trying to explain proper checking technique while Logan stood way too close behind me.
"Okay, so the key is using your body weight, not your strength. You want to—" I demonstrated the motion, and Logan moved with me, his chest against my back, his hands hovering near my waist. "Right, so you'd make contact here, and—"
"Like this?" His hands settled on my hips, warm and steady, and I forgot how to speak.
"Um. Yes. Exactly like that. Now you'd—" I tried to step away, but he moved with me, maintaining the contact. "Logan."
"I'm just making sure I understand the technique." His voice was low, amused. "You said body weight, right? I need to feel how you're distributing yours."
"That's not—" I turned to glare at him and found his face inches from mine, grinning like he'd just won the Stanley Cup. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what? Learning valuable defensive strategies from our brilliant analyst?"
Blake cleared his throat loudly. "I think Logan's got it. My turn."
Oh god.
If Logan was bad, Blake was a disaster. A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound disaster who claimed he needed extra practice because "I'm bigger than most players, and I'm worried about using too much force. I need to understand the right amount of pressure."
"Blake, I really don't think—"
"Please, Mira." He looked down at me with those ridiculous puppy dog eyes. "I'd never forgive myself if I hurt someone because I didn't practice properly."
Manipulative. They were all manipulative.
So I demonstrated again, and Blake pressed against my back, his arms coming around to "contain" me against an imaginary board.
Except there was no board, just Blake's very solid chest and his hands carefully bracketing my waist and the way his breath stirred my hair when he leaned down to murmur, "Like this? "
"Yes. Exactly like that. You can let go now."
"Are you sure? I want to make sure I've got the positioning right. Maybe we should try it from a different angle."
"Blake!"
"Or what if the opponent is moving? We should practice that too."
"Blake, I swear to—"
"My turn," Nolan announced, and I swear I saw Blake smirk as he stepped away.
Nolan, at least, had the decency to look slightly apologetic as he moved into position. "I appreciate your patience with us. I know this is probably frustrating."
"Thank you. At least one of you has some—"
"However," he continued smoothly, his hands settling on my waist with infuriating confidence, "I think there's a technical issue with how Blake was positioning his hands. The center of gravity is all wrong. Let me show you what I mean."
And then he proceeded to "demonstrate" the "correct" hand position, which apparently required significantly more contact than the previous two attempts and involved him explaining, in excruciating detail, every minor adjustment while his thumbs traced patterns on my hipbones through my shirt.
"This is ridiculous," I finally said, stepping away from all of them. "You're not learning checking techniques. You're just finding excuses to—"
"To what?" Nolan asked, all innocence.
"To..." I gestured helplessly between all of us. "This!"
"We're just being thorough students," Logan said, but his grin ruined any pretense of innocence.
"You're sabotaging my professional boundaries."
"Were they working?" Blake asked.
"No, but that's not the point!"
"Actually," Nolan said thoughtfully, "I think that is exactly the point."
I was saved from having to respond by my phone buzzing. A reminder that I'd agreed to help with campus tours that afternoon. Perfect timing.
"I have to go," I announced, gathering my materials with shaking hands. "We'll continue this discussion later."
"Looking forward to it," all three of them said in unison.
Traitors.