Chapter 2 Mira
I pushed open the door to the hockey house and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.
The living room looked like someone had combined a sporting goods store, a frat house, and a gym, then given up halfway through decorating.
Hockey sticks leaned against every wall like someone was preparing for either a game or a medieval battle.
Team photos covered every available surface—and I mean every surface.
The mantle, the walls, the bookshelf that contained exactly zero books and approximately forty trophies.
Most of the photos featured shirtless men holding said trophies and looking insufferably proud of themselves.
The couch had definitely seen better days. Possibly better decades. It was that particular shade of brown that could either be the original color or the accumulated result of years of questionable decisions. The coffee table appeared to be held together by duct tape, prayer, and sheer stubbornness.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me with expressions ranging from confusion to surprise to something that might have been horror.
The first guy I noticed sat on the couch like he was ready to spring into action at any moment, all coiled energy and controlled intensity.
He had sharp features, dark hair cut military-short, and the kind of posture that screamed "I take myself very seriously.
" He was wearing a Northbridge Hockey t-shirt that looked like it had been ironed.
Who irons t-shirts? Sociopaths, that's who.
This had to be Nolan Smith, team captain. I recognized him from games I'd definitely watched while resenting every second of it.
Next to him, another guy sprawled across the couch like he was posing for an athleisure catalog.
And I mean sprawled—one arm thrown over the back, one leg extended, head tilted just so.
He had that artfully tousled blond hair that probably took twenty minutes and three products to achieve, sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and designer joggers paired with a cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Logan Jones. The goalie. I'd seen him make saves that defied physics and also seen him blow kisses to the crowd after shutouts. He was scrolling through his phone with studied disinterest, but I caught him glancing up at me every few seconds.
The third guy took up approximately half the available space in the room despite clearly trying to make himself smaller. He was tall and very muscular. He hunched slightly on the loveseat as if apologizing for his size, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
Blake Morrison. The dean's nephew. The guy who spent games punching people and apparently felt bad about existing in his own living room.
There was a long moment of silence where everyone just stared at everyone else. I stared at them. They stared at me. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. Outside, a car drove past. The moment stretched out like taffy.
Finally, Logan broke the silence, his lips curving into a smirk that made me immediately want to slap it off his face.
"Well," he drawled, his voice carrying that particular tone that guys use when they think they're charming, "are you lost, or are you looking for someone's room?"
The insinuation was clear. I watched Nolan's jaw tighten in that way that suggested he was about to deliver a lecture about appropriate behavior and respecting women. Blake's ears turned bright red, but he didn't say anything.
I set down my suitcases with enough force to make a point.
"I'm Mira Torres," I said, channeling every ounce of the competitive fire that had gotten me to nationals three times. "Your new performance enhancement specialist. And, unfortunately for all of us, your new housemate."
I watched with deep satisfaction as all three faces cycled through confusion, disbelief, and in Nolan's case, immediate protest.
He stood up so fast I thought he might give himself whiplash. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
"There must be some mistake," Nolan said, already pulling out his phone. "Having a figure skater in the hockey house will destroy team dynamics. We're heading into our most crucial season. We need focus, discipline, and zero distractions."
His eyes flicked over me when he said "distractions," and I felt my hackles rise.
"Twirly girls don't exactly understand hockey culture," Logan added, sitting up slightly. "No offense."
"Oh, none taken," I said sweetly. "Just like I'm sure you don't understand the concept of athletic discipline that doesn't involve punching people."
Blake made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly disguised as a cough.
"This is ridiculous," Nolan continued, typing furiously on his phone. "I'm emailing the dean right now. This cannot happen."
"Already did," I said. "And unless you want to argue with your uncle, Blake, I suggest you get used to it."
Blake's face turned the color of a fire truck. He opened his mouth, closed it, then stared very intently at his hands.
"Look," I said, taking a deep breath and channeling every ounce of professionalism I could muster.
"I have a degree in exercise science. I'm certified in sports psychology and biomechanics.
I've spent the last five years analyzing athletic performance at the elite level.
I can improve your edge work, increase your agility, fix your power skating deficiencies, and probably teach you how to stop skating like you're wearing concrete blocks for skates. "
The room went silent.
"I've watched your recent games," I continued. "All of them. Yes, even the embarrassing loss to Western State where you gave up four goals in the third period. And I've already identified at least three technical issues per player that are costing you speed and efficiency."
Nolan's phone slowly lowered. Logan sat up straighter, the calculated indifference dropping for just a moment. Blake's eyes widened slightly.
"So," I said, very sweetly, "where's my room?"
Nolan looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Upstairs," he said, his tone clipped. "Only available bedroom. It's connected to the shared bathroom."
Of course it was.
"The bathroom that you three use."
"Yes."
Perfect. Just perfect.
"We have a schedule," Nolan continued, and I could tell he was trying to scare me off. "5 AM wake-ups. Ice time at 6 AM. Weight training at 3 PM. Game night gatherings that run late. Team meetings, video reviews, conditioning sessions. This house is dedicated to hockey excellence."
"Sounds delightful," I said. "I'll try not to disturb your hockey excellence with my twirly girl nonsense."
Logan snorted, then tried to cover it with another cough.
I grabbed my suitcases and headed for the stairs, feeling three sets of eyes on me the entire way. The stairs creaked under my feet. A hockey stick had somehow made its way onto the landing—because apparently, they were breeding. I navigated around it and found the bedroom at the end of the hall.
It was... fine. Basic. A bed, a desk, a dresser, a window that looked out onto the street. The walls were blank white, the furniture was that standard dorm-issue style, and there was a faint smell of old Febreze and desperation.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, finally allowing myself a moment of pure panic.
I was going to be living with three objectively attractive hockey players who clearly resented my presence.
I had no partner, no real future in skating, and my ex-boyfriend was probably at Westwood right now, lifting Julia Michaels over his head while I unpacked in a hockey house that smelled like a gym bag had died and been reincarnated as room spray.
Through the door, I could hear urgent whispered conversation.
"...call the dean again..."
"...did you see her legs though..."
"Shut up, Logan."
"What? I'm just saying—"
"Well, don't say it."
I allowed myself a small smile. At least if I was going down, I was taking their peace and quiet with me.
I started unpacking with the methodical precision that came from years of travel for competitions.
Every item had its place. Clothes hung in color-coordinated order because chaos in my closet meant chaos in my life, and my life was already chaotic enough, thank you very much.
Skating boots lined up like soldiers—I had four pairs, each broken in for different purposes.
When I pulled out my medal collection, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, my hands shook slightly.
Three national championships. Two regional titles. One Olympic trial that had ended with a torn ligament and six months of physical therapy.
I curled my hands into fists and placed the medals on the dresser, arranging them just so. This wasn't giving up. This was adapting. There was a difference.
From downstairs, I heard the front door open and close, followed by more voices. The team was arriving. Great. More people to hate my presence.
I changed into professional athletic wear—leggings and a Northbridge jacket—and pulled my hair back into a ponytail.
If I was going to do this, I was going to look like someone who knew what she was doing, even if I felt like an imposter in athletic wear that said "coach" when I was very much still an athlete at heart.