Page 11

Elena

A knock at the door causes me to jump.

"Come in," I call, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.

But it’s not Nate. Instead it’s my dad, popping by to ask if I’ll join him for dinner this weekend. I feel breathless and wonder if he notices.

As I quickly tell him yes and begin to usher him back out the door, Nate enters. He's freshly showered from practice, hair still damp. His team polo stretches across broad shoulders, and I force my eyes to stay on his face.

The two men look at each other, and Nate speaks first. “Coach,” he says simply, giving him a quick nod.

“Barnesy,” my dad replies. “Glad to see you here. I hope you’re making some progress.”

Dad turns and leaves quickly, glancing back at me for a moment before he shuts the door behind him. And here I am once again, alone with Nate Barnes, wondering how this session is going to play out.

"Doc." He says in a formal tone as he settles into the chair across from me.

"How are you today, Nate?" I click my pen and then take a sip of my oat milk latte. Nervous energy flows through my body and I shouldn’t be adding in more caffeine but I can’t help myself. I take a deep breath in through my nose to settle myself, hoping he doesn’t notice.

"Not too bad." He smiles slightly and crosses one ankle over his knee. “That coffee smells amazing.”

I glance down at my mug. “It’s an oat milk latte. My favorite.” I redirect the conversation. “So things are going well?”

"Apparently, Coach liked what he saw in practice today. Said my positioning is improving. And I didn’t trip anyone today, so there’s that."

I nod, making a note. "That's great progress. How does that feedback feel?"

"Validating." His eyes hold mine, clear and focused. "I've been using those visualization techniques you sent out in the email to the team. They're helping."

My eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. "You've been doing the visualizations?"

"Every night before bed." A small smile plays at his lips. "I'm capable of following instructions when they make sense."

Who is this guy? Not the same person who was in my office last week, flirting with me like his life depended on it.

"Let's talk about how that's translating to your on-ice performance. Any moments that you’d like to share where you felt a difference?"

He describes a drill from yesterday's practice, something technical about gap control that I follow easily thanks to growing up around hockey.

His hands move as he speaks, illustrating positions and movements.

I notice the strength in his fingers, remember those hands on my body, and heat crawls up my neck.

Focus, Elena. Focus.

"That's excellent progress," I say when he finishes. "How about team integration? Last week, you mentioned feeling like an outsider in the group."

"Better there too." He leans forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Had dinner with some of the guys last night. Turns out they’re not as bad as I thought."

I smile. "Building those connections is important. It?—"

"Though not as important as other connections." His voice drops slightly, eyes flicking briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.

There it is—the shift. The moment when compliant Nate slides into flirtatious Nate. My stomach tightens.

"Nate." There’s a warning in my tone.

"Sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. "You just look really beautiful today. I hope that’s okay for me to say."

"We need to maintain professional boundaries in these sessions." The words sound rehearsed because they are—I've been saying them over and over in my mind since last week’s session.

"I know. I got it." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm trying. But do you have any idea how hard it is to sit here and pretend I don't remember how you taste?"

My cheeks flame. "You can’t say that to me."

"I’m just being honest." His eyes hold mine. "Isn't honesty the point of these sessions?"

"Not that kind of honesty." I tap my pen against the notepad. "We're here to discuss your mental approach to the game, your integration with the team, your?—"

"My mind's a little preoccupied lately." He leans back, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. "Keep thinking about this incredible woman I met. Smart. Gorgeous. Makes these little sounds when?—"

"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "This isn't helpful, Nate."

Something in my face gets to him because his expression changes.

"You're right. I'm sorry." He straightens in his chair, all traces of flirtation vanishing. "That was out of line. It won't happen again."

The whiplash of his words disorients me. What kind of game is he playing? And why do I want to play it with him? Fuck, this can’t happen. I have to stay focused.

I clear my throat. "Let's redirect. We were discussing team dynamics. Have you noticed any particular teammates who might be resistant to you?"

He considers this, then gives a thoughtful analysis of several players' reactions to him. I take notes, grateful for the return to professional ground, though I feel like I’m sweating right through my blouse.

For the next twenty minutes, we discuss his coping strategies for high-pressure games, his history with performance anxiety, and his techniques for handling aggressive opponents. He's insightful and engaged, no trace of the flirtatious man from earlier.

This is another side of Nate Barnes that complicates my feelings—he's actually doing the work.

Unlike some athletes who view psychological sessions as punishment, he takes the concepts seriously, applies them, reports back on their effectiveness.

He's showing me he's more than the troublemaker his reputation suggests.

"Our time is almost up," I say, glancing at the clock. "Is there anything specific you want to focus on this week?"

"Maybe some strategies for maintaining focus when there are..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "distractions."

Our eyes meet, and though his words are professional, the undercurrent is clear. I should call him on it, but I don't.

"I can prepare some techniques for that and send them in an email." I close my notebook. "Same time next week?"

He stands, stretching slightly. "Looking forward to it, Doc." His demeanor remains respectful even though he insists on calling me Doc even after I told him I’m not a doctor.

"Nate?" I call when his hand touches the doorknob.

He turns, eyebrows raised in question.

"The visualization techniques—I'm glad they're helping."

A genuine smile crosses his face. "Me too. Thanks for suggesting them."

Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.

I sink back in my chair, exhaling a long, slow breath. My notepad falls to my lap, and I cover my face with my hands.

"How am I going to do this when all I can think about is having sex with him again?" I whisper to my empty office. "Girl, you've got to get yourself together..."

But the memory of his mouth, his hands, his voice keeps playing in my mind, drowning out the voice of reason. I've never crossed ethical lines like this before in my work. Never even thought about it.

What scares me most isn't that I've already crossed the line.

It's that I desperately want to cross it again.

Later, it’s nearly 6 p.m. and the training facility is mostly empty.

I should have gone home an hour ago, but these player assessment reports won't write themselves.

I stare at Nate's file on my computer screen, cursor blinking accusingly.

How can I summarize our interactions in clinical terms when there's nothing clinical about the way my body responds to him?

I type a sentence, delete it, type another. Nothing captures the reality without revealing too much. I can't exactly write, "Patient maintains good eye contact except when he's staring at my lips."

A knock startles me. Three sharp raps against my door.

"Yes?" My voice comes out high and thin.

The door opens, and there he is. Nate. He's changed from his training clothes into jeans and a dark gray henley that clings to his chest. His hair is tousled, and he has a sly smile on his lips.

"Sorry to bother you so late." His voice is low, almost hesitant. "I think I might have left my jacket in here earlier."

I glance around my office. There's no jacket.

"I don't think it’s in here." I stand, smoothing my skirt. "Maybe you left it in the locker room?"

He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

"Possibly,” he says.

And then, "I’m surprised you’re still here."

"Reports." I gesture vaguely at my computer.

He nods, takes a step closer. "Anything interesting in my file?"

"That would be confidential." I try to smile, but my lips feel stiff.

"Right." Another step. "Professional boundaries."

The air between us feels charged, vibrating with potential energy. My office suddenly seems too small, too warm.

"I should really finish up." I turn back to my computer, but I can't focus on the screen. I'm too aware of him.

"Don't let me interrupt." His voice comes from just behind me now. "I'll just look around for that jacket."

I hear him moving, opening the small closet, checking behind the chairs. He’s just putting on a show. We both know there's no jacket.

When I look away from my computer, he's standing by my bookshelf, examining the titles. I stand and move toward the bookcase, with the intention of moving him back toward the door.

"Sports psychology, performance anxiety, team dynamics." He runs a finger along the spines. "Heavy reading."

"It's my job." My voice sounds strange.

"You're good at it." He turns to face me. "You've helped me. I want you to know that."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I've had patients thank me before, but this feels different.

"I'm glad." I should leave it at that, but words tumble out. "You're doing the work. That's more than most people will do."

He smiles, and there’s the dimple again. "High praise coming from you."

He moves toward me, and I should step back, maintain distance, but my feet stay rooted to the floor. He's close enough that I can smell his intoxicating cologne. I don’t know what it's called, but it smells fresh and masculine.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing my arm, and a jolt runs through me at the contact.

"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.

"You should." My voice barely above a whisper.

His hand is still on my arm, thumb now making small circles against my skin. "Tell me to leave."

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

"Tell me, Elena." His eyes lock with mine. "Say it like you mean it, and I'll walk out that door."

I know I should. For my career. For my reputation. For my sanity. But the words stick in my throat, trapped behind the thudding of my heart.

"I can't." The admission feels like surrender.

His hand slides up my arm to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, gentle but insistent.

"Tell me to stop." His mouth hovers close to mine now, our breath mingling.

"I can't do that either."

The last thread of restraint snaps. His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and demanding. I respond instantly, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound—half whimper, half moan.

He lifts me, hands gripping my thighs, and sits me on the edge of my desk. Papers scatter, a pen clatters to the floor. I don't care. Can't care about anything but the feel of his hands, now pushing up my skirt, thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. But, wait…the door.

“Stop,” I say insistently.

He immediately backs off, both hands up.

“Lock the door.”

I can’t miss the look of relief on his face. He moves quickly to the door, locks it and then he's back, more urgent than before, his mouth hot on my collarbone as he unbuttons my blouse.

"I've thought about this every night," he murmurs against my neck, lips grazing over the tender spot below my ear. "About you. About us."

I should correct him—there is no us, can be no us—but I'm too far gone, lost in sensation as his fingers find the edge of my underwear, pushing it aside. Just this one last time…

This is different from the hotel. That was alcohol and impulse and anonymity. This is deliberate. Chosen. And so dangerous.

My hands find the hem of his shirt, pulling it upward. He breaks away just long enough to help me remove it, then returns to my lips as if the separation was unbearable. His pecs are warm beneath my palms, muscles shifting as he moves.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, as he pushes my blouse from my shoulders. "So fucking beautiful."

His words melt my last reservations. I pull him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist. The hard length of his cock presses against me through his jeans, and I rock against it.

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this. I want you."

Time blurs after that—clothes discarded, skin against skin, his mouth everywhere. When he finally pushes into me, I gasp, fingernails digging into his back. He stills for a moment, his face so close, our eyes locked.

"Yes?" he asks, voice strained.

I nod, unable to form words.

Then he moves, and all coherent thought disappears. There's only sensation—his hands gripping my hips, his mouth on my neck, the building pressure inside me. It's frantic and desperate, both of us racing toward something we shouldn't want but can't resist.

"Look at me," he demands as I feel my orgasm rising, and I force my eyes open, lock onto his. The connection is almost too intense, too intimate.

When I come, I muffle a groan into his shoulder, trying desperately to be quiet. He follows moments later, body tensing, so deep inside me.

We stay like that, tangled together, breathing hard, for a brief moment. Reality seeps back in slowly—the hum of the heating system, the distant sound of a vacuum in the hallway, the uncomfortable edge of the desk beneath me.

Nate pulls back slightly, brushing hair from my face with gentle fingers. The tenderness is somehow even more devastating than the sex.

"What the hell are we doing?" I whisper, the question aimed as much at myself as at him.

He smiles, and brushes his lips against mine softly. "Whatever we want, baby. Who's going to stop us?"

The simplicity of his answer makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. As if it could really be that simple. As if our jobs, our professional relationship, my father—none of it matters.

But in this moment, with his arms still around me, his heartbeat still thundering against my hand, I want to believe him.