Page 2

I’ve been playing professional hockey for eight years, and I’ve learned to read people quickly.

You have to when you’re constantly traveling, meeting new faces, trying to figure out who wants something from you and who’s genuinely interested in just having a conversation.

So when this beautiful mysterious woman celebrating her PhD slides into the booth across from me, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear with fingers that aren’t quite steady, I know she’s nervous.

What I can’t figure out is why that makes her even more attractive.

“So,” she says, wrapping her hands around her martini glass, “tell me about professional puck chasing. Do you actually enjoy it, or is it one of those things you fell into and now you’re stuck?”

Most people ask about stats, about wins and losses, about which teams I think will make the playoffs. They want the surface stuff, the things they can repeat to their friends later. Her question catches me off guard in the best way.

“I love it,” I say, and realize I mean it more than I have in a while. “Though some days I love it more than others. Tonight’s one of the good nights.”

“Tonight’s one of the good nights?”

“Because I’m sitting across from the most interesting woman I’ve met in months, and she’s asking me questions that don’t have anything to do with my plus-minus rating.”

She blushes at that, a pink flush creeping up her neck that makes me want to trace it with my fingertips.

There’s something about her that’s completely different from the women I usually meet.

She’s not trying to impress me or get something from me.

She’s just... present. Engaged. Like she actually gives a damn about my answer.

“What about you?” I lean back, studying her face. “PhD in psychology, right?”

“How did you—” She stops, tilts her head. “I never said psychology.”

I smile. “Sorry. Your friends aren’t subtle. They’ve been shriek-singing PhD in psychology for the last hour.”

She nods. “Right. Sorry.”

I shrug. “It’s cute.”

“It’s actually sports psychology,” she mutters, taking another sip of her martini.

“Shit,” I breathe. She has my full attention now.

Her smile is teasing, and I like the way she’s looking at me. “To narrow that even further, it’s actually sports and performance psychology with a focus on mental health therapy for athletes.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. “That’s amazing. Tell me more.”

She takes a sip of her martini, and I find myself watching the way her lips curve around the glass.

Shit. I have to remind myself that this is temporary.

She’s here for the weekend, I fly out Sunday morning, and that’s it.

But even as I remind myself of that, I’m leaning forward, hanging on her every word.

“Most sports psychologists focus on performance—visualization, goal setting, managing competition anxiety. Important stuff. But I’m more interested in the person behind the athlete.

The mental health challenges that come with this lifestyle.

” She gestures vaguely around us. “The isolation, the pressure, the way your entire identity gets tied up in what you do instead of who you are.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Six years of research will do that.” She studies my face, and I feel like she’s seeing more than I’m comfortable with. “Sorry, I’m probably being way too serious for a Vegas bar conversation.”

“No, it’s...” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain that she’s just described my life with uncomfortable accuracy. “It’s refreshing, actually. Most people think the money and the fame make up for everything else.”

“Do they?”

The question is quiet, and there’s something in her voice that makes me think she already knows the answer. I should deflect, make a joke, steer the conversation back to safer territory. Instead, I find myself being honest.

“Some days. Other days you wake up in a hotel room in a city you can’t barely remember flying to, and you realize you haven’t had a real conversation with anyone in weeks.

” I take a pull from my beer. “Your family stops calling because you’re never available anyway.

Your friends from before either want something from you or they’ve moved on with their lives while you’ve been stuck in this bubble.

And the people you meet now... well, let’s just say they’re not usually interested in deep conversations about mental health. ”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. This is supposed to be light, fun, temporary. I’m not supposed to be spilling my guts to a woman I met twenty minutes ago.

“That sounds lonely,” she says finally.

“It is,” I admit before I can stop it. “But it’s also what I chose.”

“Did you, though? Choose the loneliness part, I mean.” She leans forward, and I catch a hint of her shampoo. “Or did you choose hockey, and the loneliness just came with it?”

Christ. She’s going to be good at what she does. She has this way of asking questions that cut straight to the heart of things, of making you examine parts of yourself you’d rather leave alone.

“You’re dangerous,” I tell her.

That doesn’t lessen the moment like I thought it would. She tilts her head at me, swirling her drink.

“How so?” she asks.

“You make people want to tell you things.”

Her laugh is genuine, delighted. “Occupational hazard. My friends have banned me from analyzing them.”

“Smart friends.” I signal for another round, even though my beer is only half empty. I’m not ready for this conversation to end, not ready to go back to my hotel room and think about tomorrow’s game. “So what made you choose this field? Besides the obvious fact that you’re good at it.”

She considers the question, twirling the stem of her martini glass between her fingers.

“My cousin played college football. Division I, full scholarship, the works. When I was seventeen, I watched him have a complete breakdown during his senior year. The pressure, the expectations, the fear that football was all he was good at... it nearly destroyed him.”

“What happened?”

“He got help. Found a therapist who specialized in working with athletes, someone who understood that his identity crisis wasn’t just about football—it was about being a young man who’d been told since he was twelve that his worth was tied to his performance on the field.

” She meets my eyes. “He’s doing great now.

Coaching high school, married, kids. But it took years for him to believe he was valuable as a person, not just as a player. ”

The parallels to my own life are uncomfortable and obvious.

I’ve been playing hockey since I was four, been told I was talented since I was seven, been working toward this since I was old enough to understand what “professional” meant.

Some days I’m not sure who Reed Hendrix is when he’s not wearing skates.

“Sounds like your cousin was lucky to have someone who cared enough to notice.”

“And it sounds like you understand what he went through better than most people would.”

She’s doing it again. Seeing too much, making connections I’m not sure I’m ready for her to make. But instead of wanting to run, I find myself wanting to stay, to keep talking, to see what other uncomfortable truths she might help me uncover.

“Dance with me,” I say instead of responding to her observation.

She glances around the bar, which has a small dance floor near the back where a few couples are swaying to the jazz trio that’s been playing since we sat down. “I should probably get back to my friends soon.”

“One dance.” I stand up and extend my hand. “Then you can get back to your celebration.”

She looks at my hand for a long moment, and I can practically see her weighing the decision. The smart thing would be to say no, to go back to her friends, to keep this as just a pleasant conversation with a stranger. But there’s something in her eyes that tells me she wants to continue this too.

“One dance,” she agrees, placing her hand in mine.

The moment our palms touch, I know I’m in trouble.

Not just because of the obvious attraction, though Christ, that’s there in spades, but because of something deeper.

This woman sees me. Not Reed Hendrix the hockey player, not the guy with the nice watch and the recognizable name, but me. The person behind all of that.

As I lead her to the dance floor, I can’t help but think that one dance isn’t going to be nearly enough.