Page 34 of Puck Me Thrice
"Blake."
"I wanted to understand your world better," he admitted, his ears turning red. "You spent all that time learning about hockey, about goalie psychology and defensive strategies and line matching. I thought... I should try to understand what you do."
Something warm bloomed in my chest. "You're learning figure skating from YouTube?"
"The tutorials make it look easy. They're lying."
I laughed, walking into the garage. "Show me what you've learned."
He did—a hesitant three-turn that was technically correct but lacked any kind of flow, followed by an attempted waltz jump that was more of a hop. But he was trying, and the effort made me want to cry.
"That's actually not bad," I said. "You've got the basic mechanics. You're just too tense."
"I'm always tense. It's my default state."
"Let me teach you properly."
For the next hour, I walked him through basic movements—proper posture, edge control, the way your body weight should flow through transitions. Blake was huge andpowerful, but I learned quickly that underneath all that muscle was surprising awareness of his own body.
"You're good at this," I said, after he completed a decent forward crossover sequence.
"I had a good teacher."
We were standing close, my hand on his arm to adjust his positioning, when Logan and Nolan walked into the garage.
"Are we interrupting?" Logan asked, his tone making it clear they were absolutely not leaving.
"Mira's teaching me figure skating," Blake said.
"Without us?" Nolan looked genuinely offended. "That's not fair."
"I can teach all of you," I said, an idea forming. "If you want to learn pairs elements. The actual technical stuff."
Three faces lit up simultaneously.
What followed was possibly the most intimate athletic training I'd ever experienced. Pairs skating requires complete trust—you're putting your body in someone else's hands, literally. And teaching three hockey players who had varying degrees of grace—Nolan: surprisingly good, Logan: enthusiastic but chaotic, Blake: powerful but terrified of dropping me—meant a lot of physical contact.
"Okay, for a basic lift, your hands go here—" I guided Blake's hands to my waist. "And you need to lift straight up, not forward. Let me get into position."
I demonstrated the preparation, and Blake lifted me overhead. His hands were rock-steady despite his earlier concerns, and I could feel his strength supporting me effortlessly.
"How's it feel?" I called down.
"Like I'm holding something precious," he said quietly.
When he lowered me, Logan was already stepping forward. "My turn."
Logan's lift was less stable than Blake's—his goalie training hadn't prepared him for this kind of body awareness—but he made up for it with enthusiasm. And when I wobbled slightly at the top, his hands tightened protectively.
"I've got you," he promised. "Always."
Nolan's lift was technically perfect, his ballet training evident in how smoothly he transitioned from preparation to full extension. "This is actually similar to partner work in dance," he said, holding me up. "Weight distribution and trust."
"Exactly," I said, impressed.
We cycled through different elements—pairs spins where they had to learn to match my rotational speed, death spirals that required them to lean back and support my weight while I extended horizontally, even simple throw preparations where they'd simulate tossing me into the air—without actually following through, because I valued my bones.
Each element required touch. Adjustment. Trust. Their hands learning the geography of my body through the excuse of technical precision—how to support my weight, where to grip for maximum stability, how to move together as a unit.
