Chapter 9 #2
"Everyone makes mistakes," she said. Her voice was level now, controlled, stripped of the anger that had been running the show thirty seconds ago.
"Including me. What I said just now was poorly worded and unfair, and I take that back.
Lex, you've worked extremely hard, and your development since joining this team has been significant. That's not in question."
She looked up. Met Lex's eyes. Held them. The connection between them burned even now, even in this room full of people, even after an exchange that should have killed any warmth between them. Lex's eyes were glassy, her teeth set, breathing controlled like someone refusing to break.
"What is in question," Mara continued, "is this specific play. The coverage assignment exists for a reason, and when it breaks, the team pays the price. We'll work on your reads in our next session. For now, let's move on."
She clicked to the next clip. Her hands were trembling against the laptop touchpad. She slid them below the podium edge before anyone noticed.
The rest of the review took eighteen minutes.
She walked through the remaining clips with clinical thoroughness, distributing criticism evenly, praising where it was earned, laying out adjustments for the next game.
Lou asked two questions. Camille offered an observation about the opposing team's forecheck timing.
Mara answered them both. She was competent.
She was thorough. She was operating on autopilot while every nerve in her body screamed.
"That's it for tonight. Bus to the airport at seven. Get some rest."
The players filed out. Chairs squeaked. Conversations resumed at low volume.
Lex left without looking at her, her back rigid under the black hoodie, her stride long and fast. The door swung shut behind her and Mara stood alone at the podium in the buzzing fluorescent light and gripped the edges of the laptop until her knuckles ached.
You're losing it. You are actually losing it.
She packed up the laptop, wound the projector cable, and walked through the hotel lobby to the elevators.
Her room was on the fourth floor. Small bed, industrial carpet, a window overlooking the parking lot.
She sat on the edge of the mattress and texted Helen: Can you do a video call tonight? I know it's late. I need to talk.
The call connected ten minutes later. Helen appeared on screen in her home office, warm lamplight behind her, reading glasses pushed up into her hair.
"Mara. Tell me what's happening."
Mara told her everything. The video review. The argument. How it escalated past hockey into territory that was personal and raw and ugly. How Lex had looked at her and said You're not this angry about zone coverage in front of the entire team.
Helen listened. When Mara finished: "You said you lost control. What did that feel like?"
"Like every argument we have is foreplay with an audience," Mara said, and the words came out before she could catch them. "And I'm terrified that the next time we're alone, I won't stop at words."
Helen was quiet for a beat. "That's a lot of honesty for one session."
"I'm exhausted. I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes I'm back in that corridor with her leaning in and Astoria's voice is the only reason I didn't kiss her back." She pressed her forehead against her free hand. "Helen, you know what happened with Sara."
A pause. Helen's expression shifted. They'd spent years on Sara.
The assistant coach in Cleveland, twelve years ago.
The affair that blew up Mara's first head coaching job, cost them both their marriages, and nearly ended both their careers.
The investigation. The whisper network. The three years Mara spent rebuilding in junior leagues before anyone in professional hockey would touch her again.
"I know," Helen said carefully.
"This feels like that. Not the same situation, but the same loss of control. The same inability to keep my hands on the wheel. And I swore after Sara that I would never put myself in that position again. I have kept that promise for twelve years."
"You have. And I want you to notice something. With Sara, you didn't recognize what was happening until it had already happened. You're recognizing it this time before anything has occurred. That's not the same pattern. That's growth."
"It doesn't feel like growth. It feels like standing on a cliff and knowing exactly how far down it goes."
"Then I want to suggest something counterintuitive," Helen said. "Instead of avoiding Lex, meet her. Not in a coaching session. Have a real conversation where you acknowledge the friction. Set a professional boundary you've both agreed to instead of one you're white-knuckling alone."
"And if it turns into something I can't control?"
"Then we'll deal with that. But the explosions are getting worse. You need a plan for the next interaction, not another crisis to survive."
Mara pressed her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose. "Yes. I can do that."
"Good. Get some sleep. We'll talk again soon."
The screen went dark. Mara sat in the quiet hotel room with the parking lot lights filtering through the blinds. Her hands were trembling. Her chest was tight.
She brushed her teeth. Changed into a worn t-shirt and sleep shorts. Climbed into the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling.
Every argument we have is foreplay with an audience.
She closed her eyes. She did not sleep for a long time.