Chapter 22 Mira #2
Logan knelt between my thighs now, straddling Blake's legs to rub his cock along my clit—teasing, smearing our mixed arousal—before nudging at my entrance alongside Blake. "Double up?" he asked, grin wicked, but Nolan shook his head.
"Not yet. Mouth." Logan obliged, swinging a leg over to straddle my chest, feeding his cock between my lips. I sucked greedily, tasting myself on him—salty-tangy—hollowing cheeks as he fucked my face with shallow pumps, playful tugs on my nipples keeping me grounded in the haze.
Nolan finally claimed his spot, kneeling at the bed's edge and guiding my free hand to his cock—letting me stroke him in time with Blake's thrusts.
But he wasn't content to watch. Leaning over, he captured my mouth around Logan's shaft, tongue licking where we joined, sharing the taste in a messy, possessive kiss that had Logan cursing above me.
His intensity shone: fingers joining Blake's where we connected, rubbing my clit in tight, relentless circles that had me sobbing around Logan's cock.
"Come again," Nolan demanded, voice a growl. "Milk him."
I did—second orgasm crashing harder, pussy fluttering around Blake as he groaned, thrusting deep but holding back. Logan pulled out to let me breathe, painting my lips with pre-cum before diving down to suck my nipple, biting just hard enough to spike the pleasure.
The finale built like a crescendo. Nolan orchestrated the shift: Blake pulling out with a wet slide, Logan taking his place for a few brutal thrusts—playful slaps to my thighs, cock angling to hit my G-spot until I squirted around him, soaking the sheets.
Then Blake again, slower, drawing out my aftershocks with deep grinds. Nolan last—easing in with focused precision, fucking me like he was solving a puzzle, hips snapping in a rhythm that had me incoherent, babbling their names like a litany. "Nolan—fuck—yes—more—"
The others flanked me now, cocks in hand—Logan jerking lazily, Blake stroking with that gentle grip.
Nolan's thrusts faltered, his control cracking.
"Together," he rasped, pulling out at the brink.
They crowded close: Nolan over my belly, stroking furiously.
Logan aiming for my breasts, thumb swiping his slit.
Blake at my thighs, eyes locked on mine.
It hit in waves—Nolan first, hot ropes splattering my stomach, pooling in my navel. Logan next, grunting as he came across my tits, the warmth trickling down my sides. Blake last, a deep moan as he painted my inner thighs, cum dripping toward my still-pulsing pussy.
I trembled through it, aftershocks rippling as they milked every drop, hands smearing their releases over my skin like war paint. Exhausted, sated, I looked up at them—Logan with his sated grin, Blake with his soft glow, Nolan with quiet triumph—and felt wonder bloom deep in my chest.
We'd learned each other's rhythms, moved without collision, discovered that three men, utterly focused on my pleasure, could craft something godlike. Transcendent. And as they curled around me, cleaning me with warm cloths and murmured affections, I knew we'd only just begun composing our symphony.
The NHL draft was three weeks away, and I was absolutely, definitively losing my mind.
I sat at my desk surrounded by different spreadsheets, each one attempting to solve an impossible equation: how to maintain a relationship with three people who would potentially be drafted to three different teams in three different cities.
If I chose a location equidistant from all three, that put me somewhere in... I squinted at my calculations. Kansas. The geographic center of potential NHL team locations was Kansas.
Kansas had no ocean, no mountains, and definitely no prestigious doctorate programs in biomechanics.
I created another spreadsheet. This one calculated drive times, flight costs, and the feasibility of maintaining three separate long-distance relationships while pursuing my own education.
The numbers didn't lie: this was impossible.
"Mira?" Blake's voice came from my doorway. "Have you eaten today?"
I looked at the clock. 7 PM. When had that happened?
"I had coffee," I said.
"Coffee isn't food."
"Coffee beans are technically vegetables."
"That's not how nutrition works."
I turned back to my spreadsheets, making another notation about flight times between hypothetical cities. If Nolan went to Seattle and Logan to Boston and Blake to... anywhere, really, since enforcers were less predictable draft picks... then I could potentially—
"Mira." Blake's voice was firmer now. "Close the laptop."
"I'm almost done with this calculation—"
"You've been doing calculations for hours. Close the laptop."
"But I need to figure out where I can live that makes sense for everyone—"
"You need to eat something that isn't coffee."
I closed the laptop with more force than necessary. "Fine. Happy?"
Blake's expression suggested he was not, in fact, happy. He was looking at me with concern that made my stomach twist with guilt.
"When's the last time you ate a full meal?" he asked quietly.
"Yesterday. Probably. I don't remember."
"Mira!"
"I'm fine. I'm just busy trying to solve an impossible problem using data analysis and increasingly desperate geographic calculations."
But I wasn't fine. I'd lost weight I couldn't afford to lose.
My clothes hung loose, my face looked hollow, and I'd started getting dizzy when I stood up too quickly.
The perfectionist behaviors I'd developed during competitive skating had returned with a vengeance—controlling my food, my schedule, my environment, because those were the only things I could control when everything else was falling apart.
I made it two more days before my body staged a revolt.
I was demonstrating a technique during practice when the rink tilted sideways. The ice rushed up to meet my face. Then everything went black.
I woke up in the medical room with three extremely panicked hockey players hovering over me and a very concerned team doctor taking my vitals.
"Blood sugar is extremely low," the doctor was saying. "Blood pressure is borderline. When's the last time you ate?"
I tried to remember. Couldn't.
"That's what I thought." The doctor looked at Logan, Nolan, and Blake with an expression that clearly communicated they needed to handle this. "She needs rest, regular meals, and honestly probably professional help for what looks like a return of disordered eating patterns."
"I don't have—" I started.
"Yes, you do," Blake interrupted gently. "And we should have noticed sooner."
They took me home. Made me soup. Sat with me while I ate under their watchful supervision like I was a child who couldn't be trusted with basic self-care.
Which, to be fair, I'd proven I couldn't.
"Talk to us," Nolan said when I'd finished eating. "What's going on?"
"I'm trying to figure out how to make this work," I admitted, my voice small.
"You're all going to be drafted to different teams. I'll be pursuing my Masters somewhere.
And I can't figure out the logistics of maintaining relationships across that distance while also taking care of myself and my career and—"
"So you stopped eating," Logan finished.
"I stopped thinking about eating. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Blake asked quietly.
I looked at three faces full of concern and love, and something in me broke.
"I developed these behaviors during skating," I admitted.
"Controlling my food was the only thing I could control when coaches dictated my training, judges determined my worth, and Sam controlled our partnership.
If I couldn't control my performance, at least I could control my body.
And now everything's falling apart again and I'm defaulting to old patterns because that's what I know how to do. "
Logan sat beside me, taking my hand. "I take anxiety medication. Have been for years. Started therapy freshman year because panic attacks were destroying my ability to function. I still see my therapist sometimes."
I stared at him. "You do?"
"Yeah. It's not something I advertise, but it's also not something I'm ashamed of." He squeezed my hand. "Mental health isn't something you just tough through. Sometimes you need professional help."
"I've been in therapy since my parents died," Blake added quietly. "Grief counseling, then regular sessions to work through abandonment issues and attachment trauma. My therapist is the reason I can actually maintain relationships instead of sabotaging them before people can leave."
Nolan cleared his throat. "I started seeing someone after the confrontation with my father. Been doing sessions about managing expectations and defining my own success outside of his vision. It's been... helpful."
I looked at three successful, strong men admitting to therapy and medication and professional help without shame.
"You all just... deal with this stuff?" I asked.
"Everyone deals with stuff," Logan said. "Some people just pretend they don't. But pretending doesn't make it go away—it just makes it worse."
"Will you consider seeing someone?" Nolan asked gently. "Not because we think you're broken, but because you're clearly struggling and you deserve support."
I thought about it. About years of suppressed trauma from skating, from Sam's manipulation, from losing my Olympic dreams. About current stress from impossible futures and loving three people who might be scattered across the country.
"Okay," I whispered. "I'll see someone."
My therapist's name was Dr. Winchester, and she specialized in athlete mental health, which meant she understood things other therapists might not—the pressure of elite competition, the way sports could become identity, the trauma of career-ending injuries or betrayals.
Over the next two weeks, I processed a lot of suppressed pain. The way Sam had used me. How skating had stolen my childhood. The impossibility of living up to my parents' sacrifices. The terror of loving three people and potentially losing all of them to geography.
"Your attraction to all three men isn't broken," Dr. Winchester said during our fourth session.
"It actually makes sense given your psychological profile.
Nolan's drive matches your ambition, giving you intellectual stimulation and challenge.
Logan's vulnerability allows you to express your own without shame.
Blake's steadiness grounds your intensity and makes you feel safe.
They each fulfill different aspects of your personality. "
"But society says—"
"Society says a lot of things," she interrupted.
"Most of them based on traditions designed centuries ago for property transfer and inheritance law.
Your relationship works for you. The four of you communicate, set boundaries, support each other's growth.
That's healthier than most monogamous relationships I see. "
"But what about when they're drafted to different teams? How do we maintain this?"
"That's a practical question with logistical challenges. But here's a better question: what if instead of trying to control an uncertain future, you fully experience and appreciate the present you have?"
I stared at her. "Just... enjoy now?"
"Radical concept, I know. But you've spent your whole life sacrificing the present for future goals. What if you trusted that if this connection is real and strong, you'll find your way back to each other?"
The idea was terrifying and liberating in equal measure.
That evening, I called a house meeting. The three men gathered in the living room, looking various shades of concerned about what I might say.
"I have a proposal," I started.
"We're listening," Nolan said.
"Instead of trying to solve an impossible logistical problem, what if we just... don't?"
Logan blinked. "What?"
"What if we stop trying to plan for every contingency and just enjoy what we have right now? We have a week before the draft. A week where we're all together, no distance, no complications. What if we make the most of that time and trust that if this is meant to work, we'll figure it out later?"
"That's not very structured," Logan said, which made me smile.
"I know. It's terrifying for me too. But I've been trying to control everything and it's literally making me sick. So maybe the answer is to let go of control and just... be present."
"And after the draft?" Blake asked. "When we're potentially scattered across the country?"
"Then we communicate. We visit when we can. We make it work however we can. But we don't sacrifice the present worrying about a future we can't predict."
Nolan was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I like it. It goes against every planning instinct I have, but I like it."
"Same," Logan admitted. "My anxiety hates this plan, but my heart loves it."
"I'm in," Blake said simply.
Relief flooded through me. "Okay. So for the next week, we're just going to be present. Together. No planning beyond the immediate future. No spreadsheets about potential cities or flight times or long-distance logistics."
"You're giving up spreadsheets?" Logan asked, mock-shocked. "Are you feeling okay?"
I laughed. "Shut up."
But he was right—giving up control was terrifying. Trusting the future instead of trying to force it into submission went against every instinct I'd developed through years of elite athletics.