Chapter 13 Blake
Which, based on the sparkly fabric spilling out of those bags, it might actually be.
"Mira?" I stepped into the small room, ducking slightly because the doorframe and I had a complicated relationship. "What's wrong?"
She looked up, her face blotchy and tear-streaked, and held up what appeared to be the most elaborate piece of clothing I'd ever seen. It was deep blue, covered in thousands of tiny crystals that caught the fluorescent lighting, with intricate beading that formed patterns across the bodice.
"I have to sell them," she said, her voice breaking. "My costumes. All of them."
I stared at the bags, understanding slowly dawning. "These are your skating costumes?"
"Fifteen years of competition costumes. Each one hand-beaded by my mother. Thousands of dollars of materials. Hundreds of hours of work." She clutched the blue one to her chest. "This was my nationals costume from when I was sixteen. Mom spent three months beading it. Every crystal placed by hand."
I moved closer, crouching down beside her even though my knees protested the position. "How much could you get for them?"
"Enough to help my parents. There's a market for competition costumes—other skaters buy them used, modify them. These are high-quality, well-made. I could probably get a few thousand for all of them."
A few thousand. For fifteen years of her mother's love translated into fabric and crystals.
"Have you listed them yet?" I asked.
"I was writing the descriptions when I just—" She gestured helplessly at her tear-stained face. "I can't stop crying. It's stupid. They're just clothes."
"They're not just clothes," I said quietly. "They're your history. Your identity."
She nodded, fresh tears spilling over. "This one—" She pulled out a white costume with gold accents. "This was my first pairs program with Sam. I landed my first triple Lutz in this. And this one—" A red costume emerged. "Regionals. We placed second. Mom was so proud."
I watched her cycle through the costumes, each one carrying a memory, a milestone, a moment when she'd been someone other than the person crying in a laundry room about money.
My protective instincts overwhelmed every rational thought.
"Let me take pictures," I said suddenly.
"What?"
"Let me photograph each costume. With your phone. Just... let me document them before you sell them."
Mira looked confused but handed me her phone. I spent the next twenty minutes photographing every costume from multiple angles—the beading details, the construction, the way the light hit the crystals. I told myself it was to help her with the listings.
I was lying. I was planning to commission replicas—exact replicas—so she could sell the originals while keeping the memories. I had money from my signing bonus. Money I'd been saving for a restaurant that could wait. This couldn't.
"Blake?" Mira's voice was small. "Will you hold me? Just for a minute?"
I gathered her into my arms carefully, always aware of my size, always worried about being too much. But she burrowed into my chest like she belonged there, like my bigness was a feature instead of a flaw.
She cried into my shirt while I held her, stroking her hair with hands that had learned gentleness through cooking and now through this—comforting someone precious who was grieving the loss of her skating identity.
"I don't know who I am without skating," she whispered against my chest. "These costumes are proof I existed as something other than Sam's partner or your coach. They're proof I was an athlete, a performer, someone who mattered."
"You still matter," I said fiercely. "You matter so much, Mira."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes red and puffy. "Thank you for not telling me I'm being dramatic."
"You're not being dramatic. You're grieving. There's a difference."
We sat in the laundry room until my legs went numb and Mira's tears finally stopped. I helped her pack up the costumes, making mental notes about each one.
By tomorrow, I'd have detailed photographs sent to three different costume makers. By next week, I'd have quotes for replicas. By next month, she'd have her memories back, even if she had to sell the originals.
She didn't need to know that yet.
The game against Western State was the kind of violent, chippy, aggressive hockey that made coaches nervous and fans ecstatic. Our rivals played dirty—always had, always would. Borderline hits, late checks, the kind of minor infractions that added up to major danger.
I watched from the bench as their enforcer lined up against Nolan during a face-off, talking trash I couldn't hear but could definitely interpret from Nolan's expression.
Then their guy hit Nolan late, well after the puck was gone, sending him hard into the boards.
My body reacted before my brain caught up.
I vaulted over the boards—barely registered Coach yelling my name—and was on their enforcer before he could blink. Dropped my gloves. Grabbed his jersey.
"You want to hit people late?" I asked, my voice deadly calm. "Hit me."
He swung first. I let him. Let him get in a few shots because the refs needed to see clear provocation before they'd let us actually fight. Then I returned the favor.
Fighting in hockey is controlled violence.
It's not street brawling—there are rules, unspoken agreements about what's acceptable.
You protect your face but you don't go for cheap shots.
You punch but you don't injure beyond the immediate damage.
You fight until someone goes down or the refs break it up.
I was very, very good at controlled violence.
I landed three solid punches before we went down in a tangle of limbs and jerseys. The refs separated us, sending us both to the penalty box with matching five-minute majors.
But Nolan was safe. That was what mattered.
The game continued with increasing aggression. Every whistle brought pushing and shoving. Every face-off had players jawing at each other. This was the kind of hockey where someone would get hurt.
Late in the third period, one of their defensemen took a run at Logan, trying to crash his net and disrupt his focus. I was off the bench in seconds, inserting myself between their guy and my goalie.
"Back off," I said.
"Make me."
So I did. This fight was messier. He was stronger than their other guy, angrier, more willing to actually hurt someone. We traded punches that connected with force that would leave bruises. I felt my lip split. Tasted blood. Didn't care.
Logan was safe. That was what mattered.
When the refs finally separated us, my face was bleeding from multiple cuts, my knuckles were shredded, and I was pretty sure I'd taken an elbow to the ribs at some point. Worth it.
I skated to the bench, and through the blood dripping into my eyes, I saw Mira's face. She looked horrified and concerned and—something else. Something that made my stomach flip.
The game ended with our victory, but I barely registered the celebration. I was focused on getting to the locker room, cleaning up, pretending I wasn't dizzy from the hits I'd taken.
I made it approximately three steps before Mira was in front of me, her hands on my face, her eyes scanning my injuries with professional assessment layered over personal concern.
"Blake," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Blake, look at me."
I looked at her.
"Did you lose consciousness at any point?"
"No."
"Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy? Confused?"
"Just the normal amount."
She made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "You're bleeding everywhere."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're—" She seemed to realize we were still on the ice, surrounded by both teams and thousands of spectators and probably several camera phones. "Come on. Locker room. Now."
She marched ahead of me with the determination of a woman on a mission, and I followed because arguing with Mira when she was in medical mode was pointless.
The locker room was chaos—team celebrating, Coach yelling about discipline, trainers trying to check on various players. Mira ignored all of it, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the medical room.
She gathered supplies with brisk efficiency—gauze, antiseptic, ice packs, butterfly bandages. Her hands were steady as she began cleaning the cuts on my face, but I noticed the slight tremor in her fingers when she thought I wasn't looking.
"You scared me," she said quietly, not meeting my eyes as she dabbed at the split on my lip. "When you kept fighting even after he hit you. You scared me."
"I had to protect them."
"I know. I know that's what you do. But watching you take those punches—" Her voice cracked slightly. "I couldn't maintain professional distance. Everyone saw me run onto the ice after you. The whole arena saw."
"I don't care."
"Blake, there are already rumors spreading online. Someone posted a video of me checking your face, looking at you like—" She stopped herself.
"Like what?"
"Like you matter to me more than you should if I'm just your coach."
"Do I?" I asked quietly. "Matter more than I should?"
Her hands stilled on my face. We were close—close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her pupils dilated slightly when she looked at me.
"Yes," she whispered.
The medical room felt too small, too intimate. Just us and the first aid supplies and the truth hanging between us.
"Why do you fight?" she asked, resuming her cleaning with slightly shaky hands. "Is it anger?"
"No." I let her work, let her careful hands map my injuries. "I fight from love."
She paused. "What?"
"Protecting my teammates—protecting my family—is the only way I know to show affection. I was abandoned as a baby. My adoptive parents died. Everyone I've loved has left, but my team chose to keep me. Fighting for them is how I prove I'm worth keeping."
Mira's eyes filled with tears. "Blake—"
"I know it's messed up. My therapist says I have attachment issues expressed through protective violence." I laughed, but it hurt my split lip. "But I can't stop. When I see someone threaten the people I love, my body just... reacts."
"I understand," she said softly.
"You do?"
"In pairs skating, I spent years making myself smaller to lift Sam up.
Literally and figuratively. I suppressed my own talent to make him look better.
Sacrificed my dreams so he could achieve his.
That was my way of proving I was worth keeping—by being useful, by never being too much, by always putting someone else first."
She finished cleaning my face and moved to check my ribs, her fingers gentle but professional as they probed for broken bones.
"We're both caretakers who never learned to accept care," I said.
"Yeah." She pressed against my ribs, and I winced. "Sorry. This one's bruised badly."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You need ice and rest and—Blake, are you falling asleep?"
I wasn't. I was just closing my eyes because having Mira's hands on me felt too good and I needed a moment to compose myself.
"Just tired," I mumbled.
"Come on. Let's get you to bed."
She helped me—which was unnecessary because I could walk fine, but I wasn't about to argue with an excuse to have her support. Once there, she made me lie down and brought ice packs, arranging them carefully around my ribs.
"Stay," I said when she started to leave. "Please. Just until I fall asleep."
She hesitated, then sat on the edge of my bed. "Okay."
I patted the space next to me. "You'll get a crick in your neck sitting like that."
"I'm fine—"
"Mira. Lay down. I won't do anything inappropriate. I just—" I struggled to find words. "I just want you close."
She lay down beside me carefully, mindful of my injuries. I shifted so her head was on my chest, my arm around her shoulders, her small frame tucked against my side.
"This okay?" I asked.
"Yeah," she whispered. "This is okay."
We lay there in comfortable silence, her weight against me grounding and perfect. I felt her breathing gradually even out, her body relaxing into sleep.
I stayed awake. Not because of pain—though my ribs definitely hurt. Not because of adrenaline—though that was still coursing through me. But because Mira was sleeping against my chest, trusting me with something precious, and I wanted to memorize every second.
The weight of her. The sound of her breathing. The way her hand curled loosely in my shirt. The trust implicit in her unconscious vulnerability.
I'd been fighting to protect people my whole life. But lying there with Mira asleep on my chest, I realized that maybe—finally—I'd found someone who saw past my size and violence to the person underneath who just wanted to be chosen, to be kept, to be loved.
And maybe she was trusting me with the same hope.