Chapter 14 Mira
Dear Miss Torres,
I stared at my laptop, my coffee going cold, my brain refusing to process what I was reading.
They wanted me to work with the basketball team. In addition to hockey. While maintaining my course load. And dealing with my complicated feelings for three men who lived in my house.
I showed the email to Nolan over breakfast, expecting practical advice or strategic suggestions. Instead, his expression went dark in a way I'd only seen during games when opponents played dirty.
"Absolutely not," he said.
"I don't think I have a choice."
"They can't just assign you additional work without compensation or adjustment to your current load."
Logan appeared in the kitchen, drawn by the tension in Nolan's voice. "What's wrong?"
"They want Mira to coach basketball too," Nolan said, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
"What?" Logan's expression mirrored Nolan's. "No. Hell no."
"It's not really up to you guys," I started.
Blake emerged from his room, took one look at our faces, and asked, "Who do I need to hit?"
"No one needs to hit anyone," I said firmly. "The athletic department wants me to extend my services to basketball. It's actually a compliment."
"It's exploitation," Nolan interrupted. "They're overworking you because you're too good at your job."
"And they want to share you," Logan added, his voice carrying an edge I'd never heard before. "Share our performance specialist."
The possessiveness in that statement made my stomach flip in complicated ways.
"I don't belong to the hockey team," I said carefully. "I'm employed by the athletic department. If they want me to work with multiple teams—"
"Then they should reduce your hockey hours or pay you more," Nolan finished. "Not just pile on additional work."
But I needed the money. The athletic department wasn't offering more compensation, but they were implying that refusing might impact my scholarship renewal. And with my parents' medical bills still unpaid, I couldn't afford to lose my position.
So I accepted, and the hockey team did not take the news well.
The situation exploded three days later when the basketball players showed up at the hockey house, expecting to find me for a scheduled training session I'd completely forgotten to mention to my housemates.
I was in the kitchen with Blake, learning to make risotto, when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," I said, wiping my hands on a towel.
I opened the door to find five basketball players—all absurdly tall, all looking confused about why they were at a hockey house.
"Hey, Coach Torres," one of them said. He was probably 6'7", with the kind of confident smile that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was. "We're here for the agility training?"
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Multiple footsteps. Heavy footsteps that suggested three hockey players had materialized with supernatural speed.
"Who's this?" Nolan asked, his voice dangerously pleasant.
"The basketball team. We have a session scheduled."
"At our house?" Logan's voice climbed an octave. "You scheduled basketball at our house?"
"I didn't think—"
"You're damn right you didn't think," one of the basketball guys interrupted, stepping forward with an aggressive confidence that made my stomach drop. "We were told to come here. If there's a problem—"
Blake moved faster than I'd ever seen him move, positioning himself between me and the basketball player with the kind of physical intimidation that had everything to do with the promise of violence.
"There's no problem," Blake said quietly. "As long as you step back."
"Blake," I started.
"We're not doing this here," Nolan interrupted, his captain voice in full effect. "Mira, your session is at the athletic complex. Not our house."
"But I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Logan said, and I was surprised by the hostility in his voice. "Our house is private. Not a public training facility."
The basketball players looked between us, clearly picking up on the tension that had nothing to do with sports and everything to do with territorial possessiveness.
"We'll reschedule," I said quickly, before this could escalate into something stupid. "I apologize for the confusion. Meet me at the complex in an hour?"
The basketball guys left, shooting curious looks over their shoulders. I closed the door and turned to face three very angry hockey players.
"What the hell was that?" I demanded.
"What was that?" Nolan shot back. "You scheduled another team at our house without telling us?"
"I made a mistake! I'm juggling two teams' schedules and I got confused—"
"You're overextended," Blake said quietly, which was somehow worse than the anger. "You're taking on too much."
"I can handle it."
But I couldn't. Over the next week, I proved definitively that I could not, in fact, handle it.
I mixed up training schedules, showing up to hockey practice with basketball drills and vice versa. I called basketball players by hockey names. I fell asleep during video analysis and had to be gently woken by Logan, who looked more concerned than annoyed.
The breaking point came during a crucial hockey game when I gave Logan strategic advice that was actually basketball defensive patterns.
He followed my instructions. They cost him a goal.
I watched from behind the bench as the puck sailed past him, as his body moved in patterns that were wrong for hockey, as his face cycled through confusion and realization and devastation.
My fault. Entirely my fault.
After the game—which they lost by one goal, the goal I'd caused—I couldn't face going back to the house. Couldn't face Logan's disappointment or Nolan's anger or Blake's quiet concern.
So I went to the library. Told myself I'd just work there for a few hours, catch up on the analysis I was behind on, get my head straight.
I woke up at 2 AM, my face pressed against my laptop keyboard, my neck cramping from sleeping at a terrible angle.
"Mira."
I jolted awake to find Nolan standing over me, his expression dark and worried.
"How did you find me?" My voice came out hoarse.
"I tracked your phone. You weren't answering texts."
I looked at my phone. Seventeen missed texts. Eight missed calls.
"I was sleeping."
"You were hiding," Nolan corrected. "From us. From the fact that you're working yourself to death trying to be everything to everyone."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine!" His voice rose, then dropped back to controlled calm. "You're not fine, Mira. You mixed up sports today. You gave Logan basketball patterns. You cost us a game because you're too exhausted to think straight."
Guilt crashed over me. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll do better."
"How?" Nolan demanded. "How will you do better when you're already working fourteen-hour days? When you're sleeping in libraries instead of your own bed? When you're so exhausted you can't remember which sport you're coaching?"
"I need the money."
"We know about the ice show offer."
I froze. "What?"
"Logan looked at your email." Nolan's expression was apologetic but unapologetic at the same time. "We know about the tour. We know about the compensation. We know why you're considering it."
My hands curled into fists. "He had no right!"
"He was worried. We all were. You've been distracted and secretive and clearly struggling with something." Nolan crouched down so we were eye level. "We understand why you're considering the offer. It solves your parents' financial problems. But Mira, you can't keep sacrificing yourself like this."
"What else am I supposed to do?" My voice broke. "My parents need help. I don't have money. The only value I have is my athletic expertise, so I need to work more, help more teams, prove I'm worth keeping."
"Stop." Nolan's hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. "Stop trying to prove you're worth keeping. You just are. Your value isn't contingent on usefulness."
Tears started falling before I could stop them. "I don't know how to be anything other than useful."
"Come home," Nolan said gently. "Let us help. Please."
He carried me to his car—actually carried me, despite my protests—and drove us back to the house. It was nearly 3 AM when we arrived, but Logan and Blake were both awake, waiting in the living room like worried parents.
They descended on me immediately, checking me over, asking questions, expressing concern in three different ways that all communicated the same thing: they'd been terrified.
"Sit," Logan commanded, pointing to the couch.
All three of them positioned themselves around me—Nolan beside me, Logan on the floor at my feet, Blake in the chair closest to the couch. Creating a circle of concerned masculine energy that should have felt suffocating but instead felt safe.
"We need to talk about the ice show offer," Nolan said.
"I haven't decided—"
"We know," Logan interrupted. "But we want to present an alternative solution."
"What kind of solution?"
"We each have signing bonuses from NHL draft prospects," Nolan explained. "Significant bonuses. Money that's just sitting in our accounts earning interest."
"We want to contribute to your parents' medical expenses," Blake added quietly.
I stared at them. "What?"
"Not as a loan," Logan clarified quickly. "As an investment."
"Investment in what?"
"In keeping our performance coach," Nolan said. "You've made us better. Measurably better. Our stats have improved across the board since you started working with us. If we make it to the NHL—when we make it—we'll owe part of that success to you."
"So we're paying it forward," Blake said. "Investing in your ability to continue coaching us without the financial pressure that's literally killing you."
I couldn't process what they were saying. Three men—three absurdly talented hockey players who barely knew me just months ago—wanted to pay my parents' medical bills. As an investment, in me.
"I can't accept that," I said, but my voice was weak.
"Why not?" Logan demanded.
"Because it's too much, and because I'd owe you."
"You wouldn't owe us anything," Nolan said firmly. "This is us choosing to help someone we—" He paused. "Someone we care about."
"But Sam used to help me financially and then he'd hold it over my head, remind me how much I owed him, how I couldn't leave because—"
Logan kissed me.
Just kissed me, mid-sentence, his hands cupping my face, his lips firm and sure against mine. Kissing me to stop my protests, to interrupt my panic, to make me focus on the present instead of past trauma.
When he pulled back, I was breathing hard and slightly dazed.
"We're not Sam," Logan said quietly. "We will never be Sam. We're offering help because we want to, not because we want power over you."
Then Nolan kissed me. Softer than Logan, but no less certain. His hand tangled in my hair, his lips gentle but insistent, communicating without words that I was valued, wanted, chosen.
When he pulled back, Blake was watching with an expression I couldn't read.
"Can I—" Blake started hesitantly.
"Yes," I whispered.
Blake's kiss was different from the others—careful, reverent, like he was afraid I might break or disappear. His large hands cradled my face with surprising gentleness, his lips moving against mine with an intensity that made my chest tight.
When we finally broke apart, all four of us were breathing hard, the air in the living room charged with the terrifying reality of what was happening between us.
"So," Logan said eventually. "Are we doing this?"
"Doing what, exactly?" I asked.
"This. Us. Whatever this is."
I looked at three faces watching me with hope and fear and want.
"I don't know how this works," I admitted. "I don't know the rules or the expectations or how to—"
"We'll figure it out together," Nolan said.
"But what if I mess it up? What if I can't be what you all need? What if—"
"Then we'll deal with it together," Blake interrupted quietly. "But you don't get to make that decision alone. We're already in this, Mira. All of us. The question is whether you're willing to take the risk with us."
I thought about the ice show offer sitting in my inbox. About the safe, predictable path that would solve my financial problems but leave me alone.
Then I thought about three men who'd kissed me to stop my panic, who wanted to help my parents without expectation of return, who saw me as something other than useful.
"Okay," I whispered. "Let's figure it out together."
The relief on their faces made my chest tight with emotion I didn't know how to name.