Chapter 5 Mira
I balanced my laptop on my knees, staring at my reflection in the black screen and mentally rehearsing my heavily edited version of recent events. My parents were about to call, and I needed to be prepared. I needed to be convincing. I needed to lie my ass off while technically telling the truth.
I was becoming a master in the art of omission.
The call connected, and my mother's face filled the screen, quickly followed by my father crowding into frame with the enthusiasm of someone who still hadn't quite figured out video call angles.
They were both smiling, but I could see the concern lurking beneath—that particular parental expression that said "we're proud of you but also worried you're about to tell us something terrible. "
They weren't wrong.
"Mira!" My mom's voice was warm with affection and relief. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
"Yes, Mom," I lied. I'd been averaging maybe five hours a night between training schedules, performance analysis, and lying awake thinking about three hockey players who were rapidly destroying my ability to think rationally.
"And eating?" she pressed. "You know how you get when you're stressed. You forget to eat."
I thought about Blake's elaborate dinners, the way he insisted on cooking enough food to feed a small army, how he'd started setting aside portions specifically for me with little notes about the nutritional content. "I'm eating very well, actually. Really well. Like, better than I ever have."
My dad leaned closer to the camera, his weathered face filling more of the screen. "How are your classes? Training?"
"Good. Great, even." I launched into a carefully prepared summary of my exercise science coursework, emphasizing the practical applications while strategically avoiding any mention of exactly where those applications were occurring.
"And your new position?" My mom's face brightened. "Working with the hockey team—that's wonderful experience, no?"
"It's... definitely an experience," I said, which was possibly the truest thing I'd said all call.
"Athletic housing, you said?" My dad's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it safe? Good neighborhood?"
Oh, if only he knew.
"Very safe," I said quickly. "The athletic complex is well-maintained. Security, locked doors and very professional environment."
All technically true. I just neglected to mention that the "athletic housing" specifically meant living with three male hockey players in what could generously be described as organized chaos.
My traditional parents would lose their minds.
My mother would demand I move home immediately.
My father would probably drive the fourteen hours to campus just to personally inspect the living situation and possibly commit murder.
"Good, good," my dad said, seemingly satisfied. Then his expression darkened. "And Sam?"
There it was.
My mom's disappointment was written all over her face. "That boy," she said, shaking her head. "We always knew he was too charming for his own good. Too smooth. Your father said from the beginning—"
"I said he had shifty eyes," my dad interjected.
"You said he had expensive hair," my mom corrected.
"Same thing," my dad muttered.
Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at my lips. My parents' united front against Sam was oddly comforting, even if it came too late.
"You deserve better," my mom continued, her voice fierce with protective love. "A boy who appreciates you. Who sees your value. Who doesn't..." She made a disgusted gesture.
My dad used language I hadn't heard from him since I was twelve and someone deliberately tripped me during regionals. It was creative, anatomically improbable, and deeply satisfying to hear.
"I'm fine," I assured them, and it was only partly a lie. I was fine. Or at least, I was getting there. With help from three hockey players who made me laugh and challenged my brain and looked at me like I was something precious instead of just useful. But I couldn't tell my parents that.
"Are you dating?" my mom asked, her tone carefully casual in that way that meant she'd been dying to ask this question for the entire call.
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "No, I'm very focused on work right now. Extremely focused."
I thought about Logan's technical questions that stretched past midnight, his sarcastic commentary that made my brain light up with matching wit.
Nolan's strategic discussions that made me see hockey as an intellectual puzzle instead of just violence on ice.
Blake's quiet presence that felt like coming home after a long day.
"Good," my dad said firmly. "Focus on your career. On skating. That's what matters."
Right. Skating. The thing I was supposed to be doing instead of crushing over three hockey players simultaneously.
My mom leaned closer to the camera, her expression softening into nostalgia. "Do you remember when you were little? You used to practice jumps on the living room carpet. You wore a bald spot right in the middle of the rug."
I remembered practicing until my legs gave out, until my mom had to physically remove me from the living room because it was past midnight and I had school the next day.
"We had to sell the car that year," my dad added, his voice thick with memory. "To pay for the better coaches. The ones in the city."
The guilt settled over me like a familiar weight, pressing down on my chest until breathing required conscious effort.
They'd sold their car. My dad had worked three jobs one year to afford competition fees and travel expenses.
My mom had taken extra shifts at the hospital, coming home exhausted and still helping me stretch, still asking about my training.
"Your path back to competition," my mom said, and I felt my stomach drop. "Have you started looking for a new partner? There must be good male skaters at your level."
"I'm working on it," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "It's... complicated. Mid-season partnerships are difficult."
Difficult. That was one word for it. Impossible was another.
The best male skaters were already partnered.
The available ones were either too young, too inexperienced, or frankly not good enough for the level I needed.
Finding a new partner mid-season was like finding a unicorn—theoretically possible, but practically a fantasy.
But I couldn't tell my parents that their sacrifices might have been for nothing.
"The Olympics," my dad said softly. "That's still the goal?"
I looked at his face on the screen, saw the hope and pride and desperate belief that all their sacrifices would mean something. "Of course," I said, forcing confidence into my voice. "I'm working toward it. I promise."
Another lie. Or maybe not a lie—maybe just a truth I couldn't quite believe anymore.
We wrapped up the call with the usual affections and promises to call again soon. When the screen went dark, I sat in my bedroom feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Through the walls, I could hear the sounds of the house: Logan's music playing something with too much bass, Blake's classical station drifting from the kitchen, Nolan's voice on a phone call that sounded professional and intense.
I was supposed to resent these hockey players. Supposed to see this situation as a temporary setback, a necessary evil on my way back to skating. But somehow, over the past few weeks, the hockey house had started feeling less like enemy territory and more like somewhere I might actually belong.
The contradiction made my head hurt.
The following morning, I boarded the team bus for my first away game, immediately overwhelmed by what could only be described as an assault on all five senses.
Testosterone. That was the first thing that hit me.
Just... waves of competitive male energy radiating through the bus in visible heat distortions.
The second thing was the noise—conversations happening at volumes that suggested everyone had forgotten about inside voices.
Music playing from multiple sources, none of it coordinated, all of it competing for dominance.
Energy drinks being consumed in quantities that should probably require medical supervision and possibly a hazmat team.
Someone threw a tape ball across the bus. It hit someone else in the head. Retaliation was swift and involved three more tape balls and creative cursing.
I stood at the front of the bus, clutching my bag and seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led me here.
"Mira!" Logan materialized beside me with the intensity of someone who'd been waiting for this exact moment. "You're sitting with us. The adults. In the back."
"The adults?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Me, Nolan, Blake. We're the mature ones."
From the back of the bus, I heard what sounded like Nolan saying "speak for yourself" followed by Blake's low chuckle.
"I need to discuss my performance anxiety management techniques," Logan continued, his expression deadly serious. "It's very important. Very professional. Nothing to do with wanting to sit near you."
"Logan!"
"Just come on." He grabbed my bag and started walking toward the back before I could protest.
I followed, hyperaware of the team's eyes tracking our movement. Whispers and snickers followed in our wake. Someone made a comment I didn't quite catch but that made Logan's ears turn red.
The back of the bus was marginally quieter—or at least, the chaos was more contained.
Nolan sat by the window on one side, his posture perfect even on a bus, looking over what appeared to be opponent statistics.
Blake occupied the window seat on the other side, his massive frame somehow folded into the space, headphones on but not actually connected to anything.
"Mira's sitting with us," Logan announced, as if this had been decided by committee.
"Obviously," Nolan said without looking up.