Page 11

Chapter eleven

Nina

"L et’s start with your observations."

Derek Stephens’ voice cuts clean through the conference room, professional and measured. He’s seated at the head of the table, arms folded, with the kind of stillness that only comes from years of coaching chaos. Next to him, the General Manager, the Assistant GM, the Player Development Director, and Karen from HR sit with their tablets and neutral expressions. The vibe is friendly, but controlled.

I click my pen and glance down at my notes. No nerves. I’ve done this before.

"In the past few weeks," I begin, "I’ve conducted both group and individual sessions with the players. The early resistance is softening. We're not at full buy-in yet, but they're talking. More importantly, they're listening. To me, and to each other."

The GM swivels in his chair, nodding slowly. "We noticed the difference on the bench last game. Energy was up. Communication was sharp."

"Parker called out an adjustment mid-shift in the second period," Derek adds. "First time he's done that this season."

"Ethan didn't spiral after that penalty either," I offer. "We’ve been working on impulse control. He responded instead of reacting. That was a win."

The Assistant GM scribbles something on his notepad. HR shifts in her seat, and I clock it immediately…the subtle prep before a pivot.

"That’s all very promising," she says, with a smile so tight it squeaks. "We do want to commend your progress. But as a reminder, and this is standard policy, your role requires a certain degree of professional distance from the players."

There it is.

I smile, but my stomach drops.

"Of course. I’m fully aware of the boundaries in place."

"We’re not suggesting otherwise," she says quickly. "It’s just... well, we’ve heard from a few people that some of your sessions have gotten... emotionally intense, which is to be expected. But just keep in mind, perception matters."

Emotionally intense. Is that what they’re calling it now?

My pulse quickens. I nod again, keeping my tone neutral. "I understand. I'll make sure things stay focused."

Derek clears his throat, shifting slightly. He's not looking at me, but he doesn't need to. The message was delivered. The seed planted.

And now I’m pissed.

Emotionally intense? That’s the point. That’s the damn job. What do they want me to do—hand out crossword puzzles and call it therapy? Of course the sessions are intense. That’s where the change happens. That’s where the growth starts. You don’t get a guy like Alex Chadwick to crack open by asking about his weekend and keeping it surface-level. These players are trained to bury everything under toughness and jokes. It takes pressure to crack the armor.

How dare she imply that emotional intensity is something to be warned about! That’s not a red flag, that’s progress, bitch. That’s breakthrough territory. And if they all can’t see that, maybe it’s because they’ve never been the ones stuck inside that kind of pressure cooker.

I’ve walked this tightrope for weeks, balancing trust, progress, professionalism. And now, suddenly, someone’s uncomfortable because I’m getting real results?

Give me a break.

Eat a real breakfast, Karen from HR. Maybe then you’ll have the bandwidth to understand why emotional work matters .

And now I'm stuck wondering: Did someone see or say something?

I leave the meeting with my mind racing and my steps sharp. The hallway feels colder than it did earlier. I walk fast, trying to lose the echo of that phrase…

Professional distance.

They didn’t say my name. They didn’t say his. But they didn’t need to.

The kiss flashes in my memory, as vivid as if it just happened. The way his hands curled into my jacket. The heat in his voice. The chaos and want and need.

God, Nina. What were you thinking?

I wasn’t. That was the problem.

I round the corner, still caught in my thoughts, and nearly walk straight into James Henderson. He stumbles back half a step, an apple halfway to his mouth.

"Whoa, Doc. You got rockets in those shoes?"

I blink, pulling myself back into the present. "Sorry, James. Just... distracted."

Ethan is right behind him, along with Parker and Alex. Great. Just what I needed. A live audience for my inner unraveling.

James gives me a crooked grin. "Let me guess. Just came from a secret meeting to psychoanalyze us all over post-it notes and herbal tea."

I smirk faintly. "Something like that."

Ethan winks. "You didn’t hear this from me, but Parker cried in the last session."

"That was a yawn," Parker mutters, deadpan.

James nudges him. "Sure it was. Real emotional yawn. We all felt it."

The banter is light, easy. And I can’t bring myself to match it.

Because then there's Alex. Quiet. Watching.

"See you, guys," I say to the group. It comes out clipped. Neutral. A little too breezy.

Alex frowns slightly, almost imperceptibly. His eyes lock on mine for a half-second longer than they should. Just long enough to say: What the hell?

I give him a tight nod and walk past, keeping my pace brisk. Not running. Just... moving.

But I feel his gaze on my back the whole way down the hall.

Back in my office, I close the door and press my hands to the edge of the desk. I exhale slowly, trying to get my pulse under control.

They're watching me now. Not just the players. The front office. HR.

And suddenly, every moment with Alex feels like a match in my hand, sparking too close to gasoline fumes.

I sink into my chair and open my laptop, but all I do is stare at the screen.

This is bullshit.

I snatch my phone off the desk and scroll until I find Derek’s number. I hesitate for maybe a second before hitting call.

“Stephens,” he answers, voice low and gravelly.

“Hey, you got a minute?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“What the hell was that with Karen from HR?” I say, the irritation thick in my voice. “That little veiled warning about ‘professional distance’? Did you know she was going to pull that?”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah,” Derek finally admits. “Karen from HR’s a little... overly enthusiastic sometimes.”

“You think?” I snap. “She basically implied my sessions are crossing a line. That they’re too ‘emotionally intense.’ Which is, by the way, the only way actual progress ever happens with this team.”

“I know, Nina.”

“No, Derek. You don’t. These guys don’t crack open unless they feel safe enough to. That’s not me crossing a line. That’s me doing the work.”

“I hear you. And I agree,” he says, calm but firm. “Look, I didn’t greenlight that warning. I’m not policing your methods. HR’s just covering their asses.”

“Because they’re worried about perception,” I mutter.

“And we both know how fast perception can spiral,” he replies. “But you’ve got my support. Don’t change what’s working.”

I blow out a breath and lean back in my chair. “Thanks. I just needed to hear that.”

“You’re good at your job, Nina,” he says. “Don’t let one stiff in a blazer shake you.”

"Thanks again, Derek." I hang up.

The work is still the work. I know how to lead. I know how to earn trust.

But I can’t afford to let my judgment blur. Not again. Not with him.

Even if he looks at me like that.

Even if part of me looks back.

Especially then.

I reach for a pen and my notepad, flipping to a fresh page.

Across the top, I write:

Session Strategy Adjustments

Underneath it, in smaller handwriting:

No more personal proximity. Keep the edge sharp.

And even smaller, tucked into the margin:

God help me if I’ve already gone too far.