Chapter 6 Blake
My head hurt. Like, legitimately hurt—the kind of throbbing, persistent pain that made thinking require conscious effort. But I was definitely not as hurt as I was pretending to be.
When Mira insisted on monitoring me overnight for concussion symptoms, overruling the team doctor's assessment that standard athletic trainer protocol would suffice, I did not mention that my symptoms were already improving.
I did not point out that my vision had cleared up, my coordination was returning, and the nausea had mostly faded.
I was not proud of this deception.
But I was also not ready to give up having Mira this close, this concerned, this present in my space without the usual barriers of team dynamics and professional distance.
She'd set up camp in my room like she was preparing for a military operation. Medical kit that looked comprehensive enough for field surgery? Check. Laptop balanced on her knees for performance analyses between concussion checks? Check.
She was wearing athletic shorts and a Northbridge sweatshirt that was definitely mine—I'd left it in the common room and now it smelled like vanilla and determination. Her hair was down for once, falling past her shoulders in dark waves that made my fingers itch to touch.
She looked softer like this. More approachable. Less like the severe professional who made hockey players do ballet and more like... just Mira.
"How's your pain level?" she asked, glancing up from her laptop where she was analyzing video footage. "One to ten."
"Six," I lied. It was more like a four now, but six seemed like a number that justified her continued presence.
She made a note in her medical log. "Vision still blurry?"
"A little," I said, which was only slightly true if I squinted really hard and convinced myself I was seeing double.
Mira stood up and came over to the bed, pulling out a penlight. "Look at me."
I looked at her. That part wasn't difficult. Looking at Mira never required effort—stopping was the challenge.
She shined the light in my eyes, checking pupil response with professional focus. Her face was inches from mine, close enough that I could count the faint freckles across her nose, see the way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating.
"Follow the light," she instructed, moving it slowly back and forth.
I followed it, even though I maybe exaggerated my sluggish response just slightly. Just enough to make her lean closer, her breath warm on my face, her fingers gentle under my chin as she tilted my head for better angles.
"Your pupils are responding well," she said, but she didn't pull away. "How's the dizziness?"
"Better when you're close," I said, then immediately wanted to punch myself.
But Mira smiled—a small, genuine smile that transformed her usually severe expression into something that made my chest tight. "That's not how concussions work."
"Are you sure? Because I feel significantly better when you're within touching distance. Might be worth studying."
"You're ridiculous," she said, but she was still smiling.
She went back to her laptop, but dimmed the lights at my request—I claimed the brightness bothered my eyes more than it actually did, earning us a more intimate atmosphere that made the room feel smaller, more private.
We fell into easy conversation as the night stretched on. Between her hourly checks, we talked quietly, the darkness and privacy creating a bubble where honesty felt safer than it did in daylight.
I found myself sharing things I'd never told anyone on the team. Truths I usually kept buried beneath my enforcer persona.
"I was left at a fire station," I said suddenly, surprising myself. "When I was an infant. Someone left me in a box with a blanket and a note apologizing."
Mira's hands stilled on her keyboard. "Blake—"
"The note said they couldn't give me what I needed.
That I deserved better. That they were sorry.
" I stared at the ceiling, the familiar ache of abandonment settling in my chest. "My adoptive parents told me when I was ten.
They wanted me to know I was chosen, that they picked me specifically because they wanted me. "
"That's beautiful," Mira said softly.
"It was. They were amazing. Loved me fiercely, never made me feel like a burden even when I kept growing and growing and was literally eating them out of house and home by age twelve." I laughed, but it came out hollow. "They died when I was sixteen. Car accident. Drunk driver ran a red light."
"Oh god, Blake."
"So I was abandoned twice, technically. Once by choice, once by circumstance.
Both times left me alone." I finally looked at her, found her watching me with eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Hockey became my family after that. The team structure gave me belonging.
But I've never quite shaken the feeling of being temporary, you know?
Like I'm waiting for the moment when people realize I'm too much—too big, too violent, too damaged—and leave. "
Mira set her laptop aside and moved to sit on the edge of my bed. Her hand found mine, her fingers threading through my larger ones with surprising certainty.
"You're not too much," she said firmly. "You're not."
"You say that now—"
"I say that as someone who's spent weeks living with you, watching you, knowing you.
You're gentle, Blake. You cook with classical music playing and get embarrassed when someone compliments your food.
You apologize for taking up space when you should never apologize for existing.
You're not too much. If anything, you're not showing people enough of who you actually are. "
I stared at our joined hands, my throat tight with emotion I didn't know how to process.
"Can I tell you something?" Mira asked.
"Anything."
"I've only kissed one person in my entire life.
Sam. And even that felt performative, like I was following a script instead of experiencing genuine connection.
" She laughed, but it sounded sad. "I've spent so much time on ice, training and competing, that I completely missed normal adolescence.
Dating, parties, learning who I am outside of skating—I skipped all of it. "
"That doesn't make you broken," I said.
"No, but it makes me feel stunted. Like I'm playing at being an adult without understanding the fundamental rules everyone else learned through normal teenage experiences.
" She squeezed my hand. "Sam was supposed to fill that gap.
He was supposed to be my person. But instead, he reinforced my worst fears about being fundamentally unloveable outside of my utility as a skating partner. "
"You're not unloveable," I said fiercely. "You're—" I stopped myself before I said too much, before I admitted things I wasn't sure I had the right to admit.
"I'm what?" she prompted.
"Amazing," I said simply. "You're amazing, Mira. Anyone who can't see that is an idiot."
She smiled, and in the dimmed lighting of my bedroom at whatever ungodly hour of the morning it was, she looked almost ethereal.
"Tell me about trust," she said suddenly. "In hockey. How do you learn to depend on each other when the game is so violent?"
I thought about it, trying to put into words something I'd only ever felt instinctively.
"There are implicit contracts in team play.
I know Nolan will always back me up in a fight, even when the odds are bad.
Logan trusts that the defense will protect his goal, that we won't hang him out to dry.
It's not about never getting hurt—we all get hurt.
It's about knowing that when you go down, someone will be there. "
"Like pairs skating," Mira said thoughtfully. "The trust required to throw your body into someone's hands, knowing they'll catch you. Knowing they won't drop you, even when you're spinning at high speed and one mistake could cause serious injury."
She stood up and started demonstrating basic lift positions, her body moving with unconscious grace even while explaining technical details. I watched, fascinated, as she described the biomechanics of trust—how a partner has to believe absolutely in the other person's competence and commitment.
"Show me," I said on impulse.
She stopped moving. "What?"
"Teach me. I'm strong enough to support you, right? Even without training?"
Mira looked skeptical but also intrigued. "Blake, you have a concussion."
"Which you're monitoring. And which is feeling much better." Both true statements, even if I'd been exaggerating symptoms earlier. "Come on. I want to understand what you're talking about. What trust feels like from your perspective."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But we start simple. Very simple."
She positioned herself in front of me, guiding my hands to her hips, showing me exactly where to hold, how to support her weight, the precise angle required for safety.
"You're going to lift me straight up," she instructed. "Keep your core engaged, your back straight. I'll maintain position. Ready?"
"Ready."
I lifted her easily—she barely weighed anything, and my strength made the movement almost effortless. She rose above me, her back arching gracefully, her body held in perfect position.
"That's good," she said, her voice steady despite being suspended in the air. "Now hold for five seconds."
I held her, my hands firm on her waist, my focus absolute on keeping her safe. Five seconds stretched into ten, neither of us ready to end the moment.
"You can put me down now," she said softly.
I lowered her carefully, and when her feet touched the ground, she was smiling.
"Again?" I asked hopefully.
"Again."
We practiced for the next hour, Mira walking me through increasingly complex positions, her confidence growing as she realized I could support her weight without straining.
Soon she was suspended above my head in positions that probably looked more complicated than they were, her body a study in graceful lines and absolute trust.
I held her above me, her back arched beautifully, her complete trust in my ability to keep her safe evident in every line of her body. My hands were firm on her waist, my muscles engaged but not struggling, my entire focus on this moment, this woman, this perfect expression of trust and connection.
The bedroom door banged open with zero warning or respect for privacy. Time froze.
Logan stood in the doorway, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that looked suspiciously like jealousy. Nolan appeared behind him, his captain face firmly in place but his eyes sharp with interest and something darker.
Mira was still suspended above me, our bodies pressed together in ways that definitely looked more intimate than the technical exercise it actually was. My hands were on her waist. Her legs were positioned around my torso for balance. We were both breathing hard from exertion.
This looked really, really bad.
"Um," Logan said eloquently.
"Interesting concussion monitoring techniques," Nolan added, his voice carefully neutral.
"Blake," Mira said very calmly from her position above me. "You can put me down now."
I lowered her carefully, trying to salvage some dignity from this disaster, but there was no way to make this look less compromising than it was. Mira stepped away with as much poise as possible for someone who'd just been caught in an extremely suggestive position at what was probably 5 AM.
"It's not what it looks like," I said, which was possibly the weakest defense in human history.
"It looks like you were doing partner lifts in your bedroom at dawn," Logan said. "With our housemate. While allegedly concussed."
"I was teaching him about trust," Mira said, her spine straight and her dignity somehow intact. "Biomechanics of partner work. It's relevant to team dynamics."
"At 5 AM," Nolan repeated.
"Blake's concussion required overnight monitoring," Mira said crisply. "We were discussing trust in athletic partnerships. One thing led to another."
Logan made a choking sound. Nolan's eyebrow rose.
"Not like that!" Mira's face turned red. "I meant the conversation led to demonstration. Professional demonstration. Of technical skills. That required physical positioning."
She was making this worse. We were both making this worse.
"Blake's concussion symptoms have resolved sufficiently," Mira announced, gathering her medical supplies with brisk efficiency. "My monitoring is complete. Thank you for your cooperation, Blake."
She marched out of the room with her spine straight and her head high, leaving three hockey players staring at each other in charged silence.
"So," Logan said eventually. "Anyone else confused, or is that just me?"
Nolan said nothing, but his expression suggested he was having thoughts he wasn't ready to voice.
I sat on my bed, my head still pounding—though now probably more from emotional overwhelm than actual head trauma—and wondered what exactly had just happened and how everything had gotten so complicated so quickly.