Chapter 23 Logan
Draft day arrived with all the ceremony and stress of a public execution.
We sat in the arena—Nolan, Blake, and me—wearing suits that cost more than my first car, surrounded by families and agents and cameras documenting every moment of our lives changing forever.
Mira sat between Blake and my mother in the family section, looking beautiful and terrified in equal measure. She'd insisted on coming despite knowing that watching us potentially get separated would be torture.
"With the eighth overall pick," the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, "the Seattle Kraken select... Nolan Smith, from Northbridge University."
Nolan stood, his face carefully controlled even though I could see the relief in his eyes. Seattle was a good team, a young franchise, excellent prospects for development. He walked to the stage, shook hands, accepted his jersey.
One down.
"With the fourteenth overall pick," the announcer continued, "the Seattle Kraken select... Logan Jones, from Northbridge University."
My brain short-circuited. Seattle. The same team as Nolan. We'd be together.
I made it to the stage on autopilot, my hands shaking as I accepted the jersey. Seattle. Together with Nolan. Two of us staying together when we'd prepared for complete separation.
But that meant Blake was alone.
I returned to my seat just as the second round began. Blake's name wasn't called. Third round—nothing. Fourth round, fifth, sixth—
Blake's face remained stoic, but I watched his hands clench in his lap. Mira held one of them, her expression fierce with pride and pain.
Seventh round. Final picks. Blake's name wasn't called. Undrafted.
Blake stood with careful dignity and excused himself. Mira followed immediately, ignoring everyone trying to take photos or ask questions.
I found them in a hallway twenty minutes later. Blake was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his face carefully blank. Mira sat beside him, her hand in his, neither of them speaking.
"Blake—" I started.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice flat. "The NHL doesn't value enforcers the way they used to. I knew it was possible."
"You're more than an enforcer—"
"Doesn't matter what I am. Matters what they think I am." He looked at Mira. "You should go celebrate with Logan and Nolan. They just got drafted first round. That's huge."
"I'm staying with you," Mira said firmly.
"Mira—"
"Blake Morrison, I am staying with you. You can argue, but you'll lose."
Despite everything, Blake smiled slightly. "Stubborn."
"You know it."
The next few days were a confusing mix of celebration and grief. Nolan and I had achieved something incredible—first-round draft picks, together on the same team, everything we'd worked for—but Blake's undrafted status hung over us like a cloud.
Then, a week after the draft, Blake's agent called with news.
"Swedish Hockey League," Blake said, his voice slightly dazed as he hung up the phone.
"Team called Frolunda. They want me. They value my playing style, think I can develop into more than just fighting.
One-year contract, actually good money, opportunity to play meaningful minutes instead of just sitting in a penalty box. "
"Sweden," I repeated. "That's—"
"An ocean away," Blake finished. "I know."
Mira was very quiet. Too quiet.
"What's wrong?" Nolan asked her.
"Nothing's wrong. It's just—" She pulled out her phone, scrolling to an email. "I was accepted to a Masters program. In Stockholm, Sweden. Sports medicine and biomechanics research. I applied months ago when I was researching all possible futures and I didn't think—"
She stopped, staring at Blake.
"You're going to Stockholm," Blake said slowly.
"You're going to Sodert?lje," Mira said. "Which is like a half an hour train ride from Stockholm."
"That's—"
"Fate?" I supplied. "Destiny? Cosmic alignment?"
"I was going to say convenient, but sure, let's go with cosmic alignment," Blake said, but he was smiling. Really smiling for the first time since the draft.
"So you'll live together," Nolan said, his voice carefully neutral. "In Sweden."
"And you two will be in Seattle," Mira added. "In North America."
The implications settled over us. Geography was still separating us, just in a different configuration than we'd anticipated.
"We should talk about this," I said, because talking was what I did when situations felt uncontrollable. "We should create a framework for how to maintain our relationship across continents."
"Here we go," Blake muttered, but he was still smiling.
We spent the evening negotiating our future with surprising maturity.
Blake and Mira would live together in Sweden, with Mira pursuing her Masters while working part-time as a consultant for Blake's team.
Nolan and I would be in Seattle, establishing our NHL careers while maintaining connection through scheduled visits and constant communication.
I created calendars—of course I created calendars—showing how off-seasons aligned, when we could meet, which holidays we'd spend together. The European league had a different schedule than the NHL, which actually created windows where all four of us could be together.
"This is insane," Mira said, looking at my detailed spreadsheet of potential reunion dates.
"This is organized," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"You color-coded it."
"Obviously. How else would you track different types of visits?"
Despite the teasing, they let me plan. Because planning made this manageable, made an impossible situation feel navigable.
"Last night together," Nolan said quietly when we'd finished our logistics discussion. "We fly out tomorrow. Blake and Mira leave for Sweden in six days. This is it for a while."
The weight of that statement settled over us.
We spent our last night together making love with desperate passion and tender promises. Each touch felt precious because of its temporary nature. Each kiss carried the weight of months of separation ahead.
"I'll miss you," Mira whispered against my chest afterward, the four of us tangled together in a bed that had somehow become our sacred space.
"We'll video call every day," I promised. "I'll send care packages. I'll fill your calendar with reminders of how much we love you."
"I'll cook for you," Blake said. "Make all your favorites. Force you to eat real food."
"I'll make sure Logan doesn't drive himself crazy with optimization spreadsheets," Nolan added, which made us all laugh.
"I have a healthy relationship with spreadsheets," I protested.
"You have an obsessive relationship with spreadsheets," Mira corrected. "But we love you anyway."
We lay there in the dark, memorizing the feeling of being together, whole, complete. Tomorrow we'd start separating. But tonight, we were still us. Maybe trusting that our connection could survive distance was exactly the faith we needed.