"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—whenwe 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."
