Page 10

Nate

I slide into the team breakfast five minutes late, my eyes immediately scanning the crowded room. The booming voices of my teammates fade to the background as I search for one face. When I spot her—standing near Coach, tablet pressed to her chest—my cheeks flush involuntarily. Elena.

"Nice of you to join us, Barnesy." Coach's voice cuts across the room, drawing unwanted attention.

"Wouldn't miss it, Coach." Damn it, that man doesn’t miss a thing.

My palms are suddenly damp, my legs are wobbly, like I’ve just finished sprinting. It's ridiculous. I’ve faced down 250-pound defensemen without flinching, but the sight of Elena Martinez has me feeling like a rookie before his first game.

She looks beautiful. Professional in light gray slacks and a black blouse. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, revealing the elegant line of her neck. I want to put my lips on that neck again right this fucking minute.

I grab coffee and some eggs and slide into an empty chair beside Daniels. Elena still hasn't looked at me—not once—though obviously she knows I’m here. The deliberate way she angles her body away from my side of the room tells me everything.

"What’s up with that shit at practice yesterday?" Daniels mutters, eyeing me over a forkful of eggs.

"Just letting everyone know I’m back."

The goalie snorts. "That’s a hell of a way to do it, man."

“Well, it’s my way.”

Daniels studies my face for a brief moment, shakes his head, and goes back to eating his breakfast.

Around me, my teammates pile their plates with eggs, bacon, and biscuits; their conversations are a mix of talk about another team’s unexpected loss last night and good-natured ribbing.

Under normal circumstances, I would be at the center of it, throwing verbal jabs and being a wise ass.

Today, I can barely follow the conversation at my own table.

My eyes keep drifting back to her.

She speaks quietly with Coach, nodding at whatever he’s saying. When someone at the coaching table makes a joke, she smiles politely, but it looks forced. Not like when she'd smiled at me at the hotel bar and later after I rocked her world.

Coach Martinez rises from his seat, clearing his throat. The roar of the room quiets down quickly.

"Before we get into game strategy, I want to introduce someone for those of you who don’t know her." He places a hand on Elena's shoulder, and I feel an irrational flare of jealousy before remembering this is her father. "This is my daughter, Elena. She's joined our staff as a sports psychologist."

Elena stands up, her gaze sweeping the room—touching on every face except mine. "Good morning, everyone."

Her voice carries that same sexy lilt that had first caught my attention at the bar, before I’d known who she was. Before I'd known she was off-limits in about seventeen different ways.

"Elena will be conducting individual assessments with each of you over the next few weeks," Coach continues. "This isn't optional, and it isn't punishment. Mental conditioning is as important as physical training, especially as we head into the more challenging part of our season."

“She comes highly qualified, with specialized experience in performance psychology and sports-related stress management."

I watch a subtle flush creep up Elena's neck. She's obviously uncomfortable with the praise. I remember her mentioning imposter syndrome at the bar when referring to her career, her voice lowered as if confessing a secret.

"I'm looking forward to working with all of you," Elena says. Her eyes finally, briefly, meet mine before darting away. "My goal is to help each of you perform at your peak consistently. Everything we discuss will be confidential—with certain exceptions that I'll outline in our first sessions."

She continues explaining her approach, but I lose track of what she’s saying. My focus narrows to all the tiny details: the small crease between her brows as she concentrates, the way her hand moves when she emphasizes a point, the slight rasp in her voice.

Someone kicks my shin under the table. Daniels raises an eyebrow at me. "You planning to stare a hole through her, or you want to hear the lineup changes?"

I blink, realizing Coach has moved on to discussing tomorrow's game. Elena has taken a seat, her attention now on her tablet as she types notes.

"Fuck off," I mutter to Daniels, but then I flash a grin at him.

"Just saying." He shrugs. "You're not exactly being subtle."

Neither was that kick. I rub my shin, forcing my attention back to Coach, who’s outlining defensive pairings with his usual intensity.

Across the room, Elena tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a small gesture that shouldn't send a jolt through my body, but it does. As if sensing my gaze, she glances up. For one unguarded second, her professional mask slips, and I see it—the same intensity I’m feeling right now.

Then she looks away, her fingers tightening around her pen, and the moment is gone.

"Barnesy!" Coach barks. "You with us?"

"Yes, Coach." The words come automatically.

"Great. Then you won't mind telling us what you plan to do differently against Winnipeg's forecheck tomorrow night?"

I bullshit my way through a response about gap control and neutral zone traps. It's enough to satisfy him, and he moves on to rip into someone else.

The team meeting drones on, and Coach’s voice fades to white noise as I study Elena's face.

There is a slight furrow in her brow as she concentrates.

The way she occasionally glances up to absorb the room's dynamics before returning to her notes.

She's not just present—she's analyzing, cataloging, already working. This job obviously truly matters to her. It’s not just work—it’s her identity.

"Any questions before we wrap up?" Coach asks.

The room remains silent. No one wants to prolong the breakfast meetings.

"Elana’s schedule will be posted by tomorrow morning. First sessions start this week," Coach says.

Elena stands, smoothing her slacks with one hand. "I’ll email you all access to my calendar," she says. Her voice carries that perfect balance of authority and approachability. Not easy to do for a twenty-something-year-old.

My mind flashes back to the bar. To her laugh, unguarded and rich. To the way she flirted, completely unguarded. To the way she'd looked at me later in that dimly lit hallway, desire overriding caution.

I'd pursued her then like I pursue everything—directly, confidently, and with the assumption that charm and persistence would win out. It's a strategy that's rarely failed me, on or off the ice.

But now...

Now I see the way Coach looks at her—with pride edged by protectiveness. The way her shoulders square slightly when she addresses the players.

This isn't just her job. It's her reputation. Her career. Her relationship with her father.

"Hey, dude," Daniels waves a hand in front of my face. "Meeting's over."

I snap to. The room has started to empty, players drifting toward the doors to grab gear before heading to the rink. Elena stands by the door, shaking hands with senior staff members.

"Yeah. Right." I stand, draining my now-cold coffee.

"You know," Daniels says, lowering his voice, "whatever you're thinking about the new psychologist—don't."

My head snaps toward him. "What?"

Daniels gives me a knowing look. "I've seen that expression before. Usually right before you do something monumentally stupid that lands you in trouble."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure." Daniels shrugs. "Just remember—that's Coach's daughter. And our shrink. Double off-limits."

I watch as a defenseman stops to introduce himself to Elena. The guy's standing too close, his smile too wide. Elena maintains her professional demeanor, but I catch the subtle shift of her weight, creating distance without being obvious about it.

A surprising surge of protectiveness rises in me. I recognize the look in the defenseman's eyes—I’ve seen it in my own reflection enough times. The predatory focus of a man who is used to getting what he wants.

"I'm not an idiot," I finally respond to Daniels.

"Your trade history suggests otherwise."

The words sting because they're true. Three teams in five years. Each departure was marked by some variation of "anger management issues".

That can’t happen again.

I move toward the door, joining the stream of players heading to the elevators. Ahead, Elena stands with her father, waiting. When the elevator arrives, I hang back, letting others push forward. I get on but end up pushed into the back corner.

Elena stands near the doors, her back to me. The scent of her perfume—subtle, clean—reaches my nostrils. It’s the same scent she was wearing the night I met her.

The elevator stops, the doors open and she's gone, walking away with her father toward the administrative offices.

My mind is made up. If there's going to be anything between me and Elena—and my body hums with certainty that there will be—it has to be different this time. Not just another conquest. Not just another woman to add to my collection.

I’ll play by her rules. I'll respect her, her career, her relationship with her father. I'll be… patient, something I've never excelled at before.

At least I’ll try…

Because the alternative is watching her professional reputation crumble under the weight of my impulsive behavior.

The alternative is seeing that careful composure broken by scandal.

The alternative is not being with her because she’s not going to allow any of those things to happen in her carefully controlled world.

For once in my life, I’m going to do this right. I have to. Because something tells me Elena Martinez isn't just another woman to be charmed and forgotten.

She feels like my only chance at something real. And that's worth changing the rules for.