Page 21

Chapter twenty-one

Nina

I ’m halfway through a cold cup of coffee when Alex walks in like with the kind of swagger that demands attention.

Hair damp from a post-practice shower, hoodie unzipped, smirk ready to deploy, he’s a walking disruption, and my office has never felt smaller.

"Miss me?" he says, shutting the door like this is a casual drop-in instead of a scheduled mental health check-in.

I school my expression and close the file I wasn’t reading anyway. "That depends. Is this a session or a charm offensive?"

He drops into the chair across from me, all ease and confidence, like we didn’t just spend a night tangled together in sheets, with sighs and whispers I haven’t been able to forget.

"Can’t it be both?"

I lift a brow. "I’m not sure the licensing board would agree."

His grin widens. "Then I’ll keep it strictly professional. You know, after we cover the very pressing matter of you sneaking out like a thief in the night."

My stomach flips. I expected this—repercussions, awkwardness, a thousand unspoken things. I didn’t expect him to lead with it like it was a joke.

"Didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep.” I say evenly.

"Bullshit."

"Language."

"Fine," he mutters. "Call it what you want. But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. Or that it didn’t matter."

His words are low, serious now, and they land somewhere just beneath my ribs. I set my pen down.

"Alex..."

"No," he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Let me talk. Just for a minute."

I nod. Once.

He exhales like he’s bracing himself. "I didn’t expect that night to change anything. But it did. I feel... different. Not just because of the sex. I mean, obviously…"

I hold up a hand. "Tread carefully."

He smirks again, but it fades quickly. "I’m serious. You made me feel like I could breathe. Like I wasn’t holding everything in for once. And I know you’re probably going to give me some speech about professional distance, and yeah, okay, fine, but I need you to hear this."

I stay silent. Let him fill the space.

"I want more," he says. "Not just with hockey. With you. I don’t know what it looks like, or how the hell it would even work, but I want it."

My throat tightens.

God, part of me wants to leap over the desk and kiss him stupid. The other part remembers the policies, the risk, the line we already crossed.

"Alex," I say, softer now, "what we did was..."

"Real."

"Complicated."

He shakes his head. "No, it’s not. You feel it too. I saw it in your face."

I stand, pacing toward the window because looking at him makes my heart forget what it’s supposed to do.

"You're not wrong," I admit. "It was real. And yes, I felt something. But feeling something doesn’t make it right."

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, "You’re afraid."

"I’m responsible," I counter. "There’s a difference."

He stands too, slow, deliberate, as if moving too fast might shatter the fragile air between us.

"So what now? You want to pretend it never happened? Go back to breathing exercises and visualization drills like I didn’t have my mouth on your skin forty-eight hours ago?"

The words scorch through me.

"I want to protect this team," I say. "I want to protect you . If this becomes a distraction—"

"It won’t."

I meet his eyes. "You can’t promise that."

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

"No. But I can promise I won’t stop caring. I won’t stop showing up. And I won’t pretend I don’t want you just because it’s easier."

Silence stretches.

Finally, I say, "Then we need rules."

His brow arches. "Rules?"

"Boundaries," I clarify. "Sessions stay focused. No flirtation. No touching. No... late-night visits."

He groans and sinks back into the chair. "You’re killing me, Doc."

I smile, but it’s small. Tight. Sad.

"I know."

He rubs his hands over his face, then looks up at me with something raw in his expression. "So what do we do in the meantime?"

I sit again, folding my hands on the desk. "We get through the season. We build trust. And we figure it out one day at a time."

He exhales. "That sounds like torture."

"It sounds like discipline."

He grins. "You and your damn mental toughness."

"It's why I’m here."

"It’s also why I’m screwed."

I soften then. "You’re not screwed, Alex. You’re just... in the middle of something big professionally. And I am too. We just have to focus on finishing the season first."

He stands again, slower this time, and nods. "Alright. I’ll try. No promises I won’t dream about you though."

"Just don’t mention it in session notes."

I give him a pointed look and motion to the chair. "Alright, now that we’ve drawn the lines, let’s do the actual work. What were your takeaways from the retreat? What stuck with you team-wise or personally?"

He sighs, sinking back into the seat. "Honestly? The fire pit stuff. When everyone let their guard down a little. I felt like we weren’t just teammates; we were a unit."

I nod, jotting a quick note. "That cohesion matters heading into playoffs. You’ve got a high-pressure stretch coming, and trust under stress makes the difference."

"You going to start making me meditate again?"

"Only if you roll your eyes less this time."

He chuckles, but he’s listening now.

I shift the session toward mental prep, managing nerves and reinforcing team dynamics. It’s back to what we do best. We talk through his current stress levels, how he’s sleeping, where his head goes when the puck drops. He admits he’s been replaying plays more than usual, that his head’s quieter now, but the pressure feels heavier because of it.

“I used to thrive on chaos,” he says, slapping my desk. “Now it just makes me tense, like I’m bracing for something to go wrong.”

“That’s normal when your mental conditioning starts shifting,” I say. “You’re more aware now. It doesn’t mean you’re off, it means you’re adjusting. That’s a good thing.”

He nods slowly. “Doesn’t always feel like it.”

“Because growth rarely feels good at first,” I say, meeting his eyes. “But you’re getting there. I can see it.”

We go over a short visualization script—centered around late-game pressure and how to reset after a bad shift. He closes his eyes, breathing slowly, and I guide him through the moment.

When he opens them again, something in his shoulders has softened.

"Okay," he says. "Maybe you're still a little magic."

"Just a little?"

He grins. "Don’t get cocky."

I smile, even if part of me still aches with what I can’t have.

He’s halfway out the door when he glances back.

"For the record," he says, voice quieter, "I’m already all in. Even if we’re pretending we’re not."

The door closes behind him.

And I sit there, staring at it like it might give me answers.

Because the worst part is...

I’m all in too.