Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Alex

"S he’s here."

I barely hear Ethan say it over the sound of clinking glasses and James loudly rehashing some locker room story that definitely didn’t happen the way he’s telling it. But Ethan’s voice cuts through, low and amused.

I look up.

And there she is.

Nina steps into the private dining room of the downtown Detroit steakhouse confidently, which is impressive, considering half the team’s already here and most of us are at least half a beer in. She’s not even trying. Black dress. Simple heels. Hair twisted up like she didn’t care how perfect it looks.

But it’s her presence. The way she scans the room, eyes sharp but soft, like she knows how to disarm a bomb or a player with one sentence.

My gaze tracks her automatically.

There’s an empty seat next to me. Please sit here.

She catches my eye. Smiles. Small. Controlled.

Then walks straight over.

"Hey," she says, sliding into the chair beside me.

I lean back. "Guess I'm lucky tonight."

"It was either sit next to you or James."

"So the lesser evil. I'll take it."

"Or that I assumed that Coach is saving this seat for me."

Coach Stephens sits on her other side, nodding in greeting. Across the table: Connor, Mikey, Dillon, James, Ethan. Further down: Lizzie next to Coach, and at the next tables nearby, Haley, Grace, and a few other wives and girlfriends and the rest of the players.

Coach stands and taps his glass. The chatter dips.

"Proud of you guys," he says. "We fought hard to get here. Playoffs didn’t come easy, and they don’t mean we’re done. But tonight we celebrate. Not just the goals and saves, but the grit. The growth. And the headspace it took to get here."

He doesn’t say Nina’s name, but he looks at her.

Lizzie stands beside him. "To the Detroit Acers. You made us proud."

"To the Acers!" everyone echoes.

Glasses clink. Steak hits plates. Bread gets passed. Conversation ramps up again.

"No clipboard tonight, Doc?" James calls across the table, mouth full of garlic bread.

Nina lifts her glass. "Didn’t want to document the trauma of watching you eat."

Ethan snorts. "Bet she’s ranking us by fork etiquette."

"Only the ones chewing with their mouths open. James."

"Unreal," James groans. "I invite her into our minds and she judges our table manners."

"Therapy's everywhere, baby," she replies.

She’s in her element. Tossing sass like it’s game tape and they’re the rookies. And they love it. Damn, I love it.

I move her water glass closer. Offer the last breadstick without making a thing of it. Protective? Yeah. Subtle? Trying.

I nudge her with my elbow. "So when’s the group therapy circle? After dessert?"

She side-eyes me. "Only if we get to start with you."

The guys all point to me. James grins. "Captain Emotional Suppression."

"I prefer emotionally selective," I shoot back.

"Oh, is that what the kids are calling emotionally constipated these days?" Nina teases, lifting her glass.

"Only when the kids are incredibly self-aware and devastatingly handsome," I deadpan.

Connor leans forward. "What’s the most messed up pre-game ritual you’ve seen, Doc?"

She hums like she’s thinking. "There was a linebacker who had to sniff his cleats before warmup. Said it 'cleared the head.'"

James gags. "Okay, no. We’re not doing that."

"I mean, I wouldn’t recommend it," Nina replies dryly.

"You ever have to break someone out of something like that?" Ethan asks.

"You mean behavioral conditioning? Sure. You’d be surprised how many guys can’t function without the ‘right’ song or the ‘right’ socks."

Mikey groans. "Don’t look at me. I just like symmetry."

Connor raises a brow. "You match your socks to your underwear. That’s not symmetry. That’s serial killer energy."

Nina laughs. "I’m not judging. Much."

"Are you taking mental notes on us right now?" I ask.

"I always am," she says.

"So what am I, then?"

"You’re... a puzzle. Part alpha. Part enigma."

"And you’re dangerous with a clipboard," I say.

"You should see me with a whiteboard."

"I’m starting to think you enjoy poking bears."

"Only when they growl," she replies, lifting a brow.

The table explodes into laughter. Nina just smirks and sips her wine. I sit back, watching her, knowing damn well I’m grinning like an idiot.

Dangerous, I remind myself.

But I don’t want to be careful tonight.

Nina leans in. "Keep teasing me and I’ll schedule your next meltdown."

I swear the air tightens. Just a little. Just enough.

Dinner flows. Jokes, jabs, more drinks. Parker tells a story about Grace out-shooting him in a charity game. Connor makes fun of Mikey for his pre-game sock superstition. Nina throws in a line about sports rituals being a sign of underlying need for control. Mikey looks like she read his diary.

I catch her gaze. "You always psychoanalyze your dinner guests?"

"Only the ones broadcasting their unresolved issues through carb choices."

I grin. "Good thing I skipped the mashed potatoes."

She laughs, the sound low and warm.

Coach lifts his glass again. "Early practice tomorrow. Let’s not make me regret letting you have cheesecake."

Groans all around.

Nina adds her two cents. "Therapy starts at dawn."

I lean close. "Better set two alarms. I’m gonna need extra time with you."

She chokes on a laugh. Swats my arm.

James catches it. "Yo, what’s this? Whispered threats? Love notes? Chadwick, you holding hands under the table?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know," I toss back.

Connor raises an eyebrow. "Should we be worried?"

Parker mutters, "Only if he starts quoting progressive relaxation techniques in the locker room."

"Or smiling too much," Ethan adds. "That's a red flag."

"Thank God Karen from HR isn’t here," Parker says. "She’d be citing us for excessive joy and minor acts of bonding."

James snorts. "Fun? Speak for yourself. I’m only here for the steak."

"You’re here because you followed the scent of garlic bread," Ethan says, popping a roll into his mouth.

Connor leans over, grinning. "Seriously though, Doc. What's it like being surrounded by a bunch of sweaty degenerates all week, then choosing to hang out with us voluntarily?"

"I consider it field research," Nina replies. "Like Jane Goodall, but with more deodorant."

Mikey laughs. "Debatable."

I lean in, eyes glinting. "So what category do I fall under, Doc?"

She gives me a deliberate once-over. "Inconclusive. But trending toward ‘high-risk distraction.’"

James whistles. "Damn, she’s good."

"I’ll take that diagnosis. I like being a distraction," I mutter with a crooked smile as I deliberately brush my foot against hers.

She fidgets, just barely, and I catch her smile just a little before she hides it behind her wine glass.

Connor shakes his head. "Forget therapy. She’s roasting us alive."

"With style," Lizzie adds, "You go girl!"

Coach chuckles into his drink. "Makes you wonder if she ever takes a day off."

"Oh, I do, Coach," Nina says sweetly. "That’s when I review all their mental profiles. Color-coded and annotated."

Parker groans. "Good organization skills...right up my alley!"

"I knew she was judging my snack habits," I admit jokingly.

"Only the peanut M&M addiction," Nina teases.

I tap my glass. "Guilty as charged. But you like me anyway."

She meets my gaze. "We’ll see. Jury’s still out."

And just like that, dinner rolls on—laughs, digs, and that sharp current of chemistry threading under every word. It’s not just banter anymore. It’s something alive.

I shift in my seat and tap her foot under the table with mine. She startles slightly, then shoots me a look like she’s debating whether to laugh or stab me with her salad fork.

“Footsie, Chadwick?” she whispers.

“Just keeping your nerves sharp,” I say with a wink. “Occupational hazard.”

She smirks, takes another sip of her wine, and crosses her legs, very deliberately brushing against mine. Payback.

James leans over the table. “Hey Doc, be honest. Who on the team’s most likely to cry during therapy?”

Nina doesn’t even blink. “Depends. Physical tears or emotional unraveling?”

“Physical,” James grins.

“Connor. He’d cry out of boredom if I made him sit still long enough.”

Connor gasps, mock-offended. “Wow. Betrayed by the mental coach.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” she says. “But Mikey might cry if I banned symmetry.”

Mikey clutches his chest. “I’m delicate!”

Coach chuckles from across the table. “Y’all better toughen up. Playoffs are coming.”

“And so is the postseason therapy audit,” Nina says smoothly.

I lean toward her, voice low. “You know you’re going to have to back all this up, right?”

She turns to me, eyes gleaming. “I always back it up, Chadwick. Just not always on command.”

I groan under my breath. “Damn, Doc. You can’t just say things like that in public.”

“Sure I can. It’s called psychological warfare.”

“And you’re armed to the teeth,” I mutter, then nudge her again beneath the table. She doesn’t pull away.

James notices something and raises a brow. “You two look awfully cozy for a work dinner.”

I smirk, leaning back just a little. “Don’t worry, Henderson. HR’s not here to file the paperwork.”

Nina shakes her head, biting back a smile. “Careful, Chadwick. Keep pushing and you might find yourself in the penalty box.”

“Only if you’re there with me,” I shoot back.

She leans in slightly, playful but firm. “Sorry, I don’t play shorthanded. Especially not with smartasses.”

James leans back in his chair, pointing a lazy finger. “Okay, what is happening right now? Because that looked like flirting, and I need to know if I should be grossed out or taking notes.”

Ethan elbows him. “Definitely grossed out. Chadwick’s got that look like he’s one well-timed compliment away from writing poetry.”

Nina straightens in her seat with a smirk. “Relax, boys. You’re not witnessing a romance novel. Just a very advanced psychological case study.”

Alex grins. “Oh yeah? What’s the working title? ‘The Goalie and the Girl Who Knew Too Much’?”

She sips her wine. “More like, ‘How to Handle a Rink Full of Repressed Man-Children.’”

James howls. “She got us there.”

Ethan mock-wipes a tear. “I’ve never felt so exposed.”

Connor deadpans, “Speak for yourself. I’m still trying to figure out what symmetry has to do with my emotional state.”

Nina raises a brow. “It’s everything, Captain. Don’t mess with the balance.”

Alex shakes his head, trying not to laugh. “See? Dangerous with a clipboard. Deadly with a comeback.”

Connor tosses a breadstick across the table at me. “Save it for the ice, lover boy.”

The whole table laughs, the energy loud and light and crackling like fire.

And through it all, Nina just smiles, steady and calm, but her foot’s still touching mine.

The tension builds like a countdown.

And I know one thing for sure…

This isn’t just attraction anymore.

This is trouble. And I’m walking straight into it with open arms.