Chapter 5 Mira #2
Blake pulled his non-functional headphones off and shifted closer to the window, making space. Logan gestured to the seat between Blake and the window with a flourish that was probably meant to be chivalrous but came off as slightly manic.
I sat down, immediately regretting this decision as Blake's body heat radiated through the small space between us. Logan and Nolan sat across the aisle, close enough to continue conversation but far enough that we weren't technically violating any personal space bubbles.
Except Blake's personal space bubble apparently extended approximately three inches beyond his body, because I could feel every breath he took.
The bus started moving, and the air conditioning kicked on with the force of an arctic wind tunnel. Within minutes, I was suppressing shivers, trying to look professional while my body decided to stage a protest against bus climate control.
Blake noticed immediately. Of course he did.
Without a word, he shrugged off his Northbridge Hockey jacket and held it out to me.
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're shivering." His voice was soft but firm. "Take the jacket."
I took the jacket. It was massive on me, still warm from his body, and smelled like whatever laundry detergent he used mixed with something distinctly Blake—clean and woodsy and disturbingly comforting.
I pulled it around myself and tried not to think about how good it felt to be wrapped in something that belonged to him.
"Better?" Blake asked.
"Much. Thank you."
He nodded and returned his attention to the window, but I noticed the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"So," Logan said, leaning across the aisle with the intensity of someone about to share classified information. "Let me tell you about everyone on this bus."
For the next hour, Logan provided a running commentary on every player, delivered with surgical sarcastic precision that made me bite my lip to keep from laughing too obviously.
He described the sophomore line as "three golden retrievers who share one brain cell and it's usually lost." The defensive pair in front of us were apparently "hockey robots programmed for violence and protein shakes.
" The backup goalie was "nice kid, decent saves, hair gel budget bigger than his actual budget. "
I shouldn't have been entertained. I should have shut this down as unprofessional. Instead, I found myself adding my own observations, pointing out technical inefficiencies I'd noticed during practice, skating deficiencies that could be improved.
Nolan leaned in, his attention shifting from opponent stats to our conversation. "You noticed Johnson's edge work is compromised?"
"His left skate's been giving him trouble for weeks," I said. "He's compensating with his right side, which is throwing off his balance during tight turns."
"Huh." Nolan looked impressed. "Coach hasn't mentioned anything."
"Coach is focused on strategy. I'm focused on biomechanics. Different lens."
"Smart," Nolan said, and something in his tone made my stomach flutter in a way that was definitely not professional.
For the next two hours, we fell into easy conversation that felt less like work and more like friendship. The three of them challenged my assessments, asked detailed questions about technical adjustments, actually listened to my responses instead of just waiting for their turn to talk.
Logan questioned my evaluation of opponent goalie weaknesses with the kind of intellectual sparring that made my brain light up.
Nolan explained strategic plays with tactical detail that revealed deep intelligence beneath his captain persona.
Blake said little, but his presence beside me felt solid and comfortable, and he kept adjusting his position to make sure I had enough room even though the seat was clearly too small for his frame.
By the time we arrived at the opponent's arena, I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to maintain professional distance.
Then I caught some of the other players looking at us—speculative glances, interested stares, some edging toward crude—and remembered that living with three of the team's stars probably looked like something other than "professional development opportunity."
Great. Now I had to worry about team gossip on top of everything else.
During the game, I positioned myself behind the bench where I could observe without interfering with Coach Williams's authority. Over the past few weeks, I'd developed a system of subtle hand signals with the players for real-time technical adjustments.
The system worked brilliantly. The players responded to my corrections with immediate understanding, making micro-adjustments that improved their performance without disrupting Coach's game strategy.
The game was intense, physical, and competitive in a way that made my heart race with vicarious adrenaline.
I watched Logan make save after impossible save, his body moving with athletic grace that legitimately caught my breath.
Watched Nolan command the ice with strategic precision, always three plays ahead of the opponent.
Watched Blake use his size to protect his teammates, enforcing boundaries with physical dominance tempered by surprising restraint.
I was so focused on the game that when the brutal hit happened, my brain took a full second to process what I was seeing.
Blake went into the boards with force that made the entire arena gasp. His body crumpled. He didn't get up.
My professional composure evaporated instantly.
I vaulted over the bench before anyone could stop me—before I even consciously decided to move.
My shoes somehow found purchase on the ice as I ran toward Blake's motionless form, my heart hammering in my throat, my training taking over even as my brain screamed that he wasn't moving. He wasn't moving! Why wasn't he moving?
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands immediately going to his neck to check for stability. "Don't move him!" I screamed at the approaching medical staff. "Cervical precautions! Check for concussion! Someone get the backboard!"
I sounded like a drill sergeant. I sounded unhinged. I didn't care.
Blake's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and landed on my face inches from his. He tried to smile, winced, and I realized I was still holding his face between my hands with a tenderness that had nothing to do with medical assessment.
"Hey," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred. "You're pretty."
"You're concussed," I said, my voice shaking. "Don't talk."
"Worth it," he whispered.
The medical team took over, but I refused to move far, tracking Blake's responses with professional precision layered over personal concern that I couldn't quite hide.
They went through the concussion protocol—checking his pupils, testing his coordination, asking orientation questions he answered slowly but correctly.
When they helped Blake off the ice to cheers from both crowds, I followed, completely ignoring the thousands of spectators who'd definitely just watched me break protocol to rush to an injured player's side.
Professional distance? Never heard of her.
In the medical room, while the team doctor conducted his assessment, Logan appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing his goalie pads, having apparently abandoned his post the moment he could.
"Is he okay?" Logan's voice was tight with worry.
"Moderate concussion," the doctor said. "He's out for the rest of the game."
"But he's okay?" Logan pressed.
"He'll be fine with proper monitoring."
Nolan showed up minutes later, still in full gear, his face flushed from the game. He took one look at Blake lying on the examination table and then at me hovering nearby, and something in his expression softened.
"You ran onto the ice during an active game," Nolan said to me.
"He was hurt."
They crowded into the small medical room, ostensibly to check on their teammate, but I noticed the way they seemed to be checking on me too. Their eyes tracked my shaking hands, the way my breath hadn't quite steadied, the protective fury that was still coursing through my veins.
"I'm fine," Blake said, his words clearer now. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" I demanded.
"Like you're about to commit murder on my behalf."
"I'm not ruling it out," I muttered.
Logan snorted. Nolan tried to hide a smile. Blake's expression went soft in a way that made my chest tight.
The doctor cleared his throat. "He needs neurological monitoring for the next twenty-four hours. Standard concussion protocol."
"I'll do it," I said immediately.
"Miss Torres, that's not necessary—"
"I have training in concussion management. I'm monitoring him."
The doctor looked at Blake, who shrugged as much as his neck brace allowed. "She's monitoring me."
"Fine," the doctor sighed. "But follow the protocol exactly. Hourly checks, no sleeping for the first four hours, if symptoms worsen—"
"I know the protocol," I said firmly.
The team won without Blake, and on the bus ride home, I sat beside him in the dark, monitoring his condition with professional vigilance while trying not to think about how my reaction to his injury had revealed far more than I'd intended.
Across the aisle, Logan and Nolan pretended to sleep. But I could feel their awareness, their attention, the shift in dynamic that had happened the moment I'd run onto that ice without thinking.
Everything was getting more complicated. And I had a horrible feeling it was only going to get worse.