Page 40 of Puck Me Thrice
"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."
