Page 12

Nate

T he puck finds me like it's magnetized to my stick. Everything else fades—the roaring crowd, the blinding lights, my shouting teammates. I’m laser-focused.

I know exactly where to be, when to shoot, how to slip past defenders who might as well be standing still.

And behind it all, powering every move, is her face.

Elena. I'm having the best game of my life tonight, and it's all because of her.

I cut left, leaving a defenseman spinning, then thread a pass through an impossible gap to my winger. He shoots, the goalie saves, but the rebound kicks right to where I'm already skating. One touch and it's in. Goal number two of the night.

My teammates crash into me against the boards, thumping my back and screaming in my ear. I scan the stands, wondering if she's watching. Is she up there somewhere, watching me, remembering how I pressed her against her desk two nights ago?

The thought sends fire through my veins, sharpening my senses even further.

"Barnesy is fucking possessed tonight!" someone on the bench shouts.

I'm not possessed. I'm just finally playing for something that matters.

Third period. The game's tied 3-3. My line jumps over the boards for a shift with five minutes left. The Pittsburgh center wins the face-off, but their winger fumbles the pass. I pounce, stealing the puck and breaking toward their zone with nothing but open ice ahead.

Their defenseman backpedals, trying to take away my angle. I fake a shot, drag the puck between my legs, and then go forehand-backhand so fast that the goalie's still sliding right when I tuck it in on his left.

Hat trick. Hell fucking yes.

The arena erupts. Hats rain down from the stands—a blur of black and red Chicago Blades colors floating onto the ice. The referee delays the game while arena staff clear them away. I skate past our bench, accepting fist bumps and head taps from teammates who couldn't stand me last week.

"What the hell got into you, Barnesy?" McCoy yells over the crowd noise.

I just smile. I can't exactly tell him I'm fucking the coach's daughter and it's turned me into a hockey god.

We hang on to win 4-3. My three goals and Evan Daniels’ forty saves steal the headlines. The locker room buzzes with energy as we strip off sweat-soaked gear.

"The Barnesy Show!" A defenseman I've barely spoken to claps me on the shoulder. "Fucking beautiful, man."

Coach enters, and the look on his usual scowling face tells me even he can't hide his approval tonight.

"That's how you respond to adversity," he says, looking around the room before his eyes land on me. "Barnesy showed us something tonight. That third goal? That's the kind of effort we need in the playoffs."

I smile, acknowledging the rare praise. I search Coach's face for any sign that he knows about me and Elena, but there's nothing—just the grudging respect of a coach who values winning.

"Beers for all you fuckers," McCoy announces. "Miller's Bar in thirty."

I shower quickly, my muscles pleasantly sore.

The hot water washes over me, and I close my eyes, immediately seeing Elena—her dark hair splayed across her desk, lips parted, eyes locked on mine as I moved inside her.

My cock stirs at the memory, and I quickly redirect my thoughts before I embarrass myself in front of twenty naked hockey players.

Miller's Bar is loud and dark, with hockey memorabilia covering every wall.

The team claims a section in the back, players spreading out across several tables.

Pitchers of beer arrive immediately, followed by plates of wings and nachos.

I nurse a single beer, sitting slightly apart as I watch my teammates celebrate.

Across the bar, several players are already working their angles with women who follow the team. It's the same routine after every game—score on the ice, score off it. The ritual used to include me. Not anymore.

"Not joining the hunt tonight?" Daniels slides into the chair across from me, his own beer half-empty.

I shake my head. "Not interested."

He studies me with those analytical goalie eyes. "Something’s different with you lately."

"Better different or worse different?"

"Just different." He takes a slow sip. "More focused. Less of an asshole." He laughs. "Most of the time at least."

I laugh, genuinely appreciating his bluntness. "Maybe I'm finally growing up."

"About fucking time." But he's smiling. "Thirty's right around the corner."

"Don't remind me."

We watch as one of our rookies strikes out spectacularly with a woman at the bar. She walks away, leaving him mid-sentence.

"Think we've got a shot this year?" I ask, changing the subject. "At the Cup, I mean."

Daniels considers this seriously. He's been with the Blades for twelve years, seen teams rise and fall. "If we keep playing like tonight? Yeah, we've got a shot."

"Damn, I hope so."

He leans forward. "This team's solid. Good scoring, excellent goaltending?—"

"Humble," I interject.

He flips me off casually. "Good defense. Decent depth. What we've been missing is that game-breaker. Someone who can change the momentum single-handedly."

"Like tonight."

"Like tonight," he agrees. "Do that consistently, and we're contenders."

The responsibility settles on me, heavy but not unwelcome. For years, I've been the problem child, the selfish star, the locker room asshole. Maybe now I can be something else.

Daniels finishes his beer and checks his watch. "Gotta head out. Sophie's waiting up."

"How long you two been together now?"

"Three years. Married for two." His face softens.

A sharp pang hits me. I know that feeling that I see all over his face. I just can't have her—not openly, anyway.

"Tell Sophie I said hi."

"Will do." He stands, pulling on his jacket. "Congrats again on the hat trick. You’re killing it."

“Thanks, man. And thanks for being a kickass goalie. The team would be nothing without you.”

After he leaves, I stay for another twenty minutes, talking to some of the guys and watching the scene around me with detached interest. Two years ago, I'd be in the middle of it all, buying rounds, drawing attention, leaving with whichever woman caught my eye. Tonight, it all seems hollow.

I slip out without announcing my departure. The night air is chilly against my face as I walk to my car. My phone remains silent in my pocket.

At home, I move through my empty apartment, turning on lights, dropping my keys on the counter.

I flop onto my couch and close my eyes, picturing Elena's face—not during sex, but during our session, when she listened to me with complete focus, like what I was saying actually mattered.

No one's ever looked at me like that before.

Sleep finds me there on the couch, still in my clothes, dreaming of dark eyes and forbidden touch and something that feels dangerously like hope.

A few days later, I’m back in her office for another session. As soon as I walk in the door, my mind goes to our night here a week ago. One look at the desk and all I can see is her naked on it, looking up at me with those big, beautiful eyes. I get half-hard just thinking about it.

She sits across from me in a high-necked blouse buttoned to her throat, her expression carefully neutral. If I didn't know better—if I hadn't heard the sounds she made when I was inside her—I'd never guess what happens when we're alone. She's good at this game.

"Congratulations on your hat trick," she says, pen poised over her notepad. "That must have felt good."

"It did." I lean back in my chair. "Though not as good as I felt the other night."

A slight tightening around her mouth is the only indication that my words affect her. "Let's keep this professional, Nate."

"That's what we're doing." I smile, trying to look innocent. "Talking about my performance. Isn't that why I'm here?"

She sighs, but there's a hint of amusement behind her exasperation. "How did you feel about the team's reaction to your performance?"

I consider this seriously. "Different. Usually, when I score, it's all about me. This time it felt more... connected."

"Connected," she repeats, writing something down. "Interesting word. Can you elaborate?"

"I wasn't just scoring for myself. I was part of something bigger." I pause, surprised by my own honesty. "It's not a feeling I'm used to."

Her eyes soften slightly. "Why do you think that is?"

The question dangles between us. I could deflect, make another flirty comment, keep things surface-level. But something about her steady gaze makes me want to dig deeper.

"I never really belonged anywhere growing up." The words come out before I can filter them. "Team sports were supposed to fix that, but I always felt like an outsider."

She leans forward slightly. "Tell me more about your childhood. We haven't discussed that much yet."

My chest tightens. This wasn't part of the plan. I came here to flirt, to continue this thrilling game between us. Not to crack myself wide open.

"Not much to tell." I shrug. "Poor kid from a rough neighborhood. Hockey was my ticket out."

"And your parents?" Her voice is gentle, coaxing.

I stare at a point just past her shoulder. "Dad worked construction when he could get it. Mom cleaned houses, waitressed, whatever paid the bills. They weren't around much."

"That must have been difficult."

"It was what it was. I took care of myself. Learned to cook because otherwise I wouldn't eat. Learned to do laundry because no one else was doing it. Learned to forge my mom's signature on school forms."

She doesn't say anything, just waits. The silence stretches between us until I feel like I’ve got to fill it.

"The worst part wasn't being alone." My voice drops lower. "It was feeling like a burden when they were around. Like every dollar they spent on me was one more worry line on my mom's face. Every hockey stick, every pair of skates—I could see them calculating how many extra shifts they'd need."

"That's a heavy weight for a kid to carry."

"Yeah, well." I attempt a smile. "Made me tough, right? Perfect hockey mentality."

Elena sets her pen down, folding her hands in her lap. "Did you ever feel angry about your situation?"

The question hits a nerve. "What was there to be angry about? At least they kept a roof over my head. Some kids had it worse."

"That doesn't invalidate what you feel though, Nate."

Something hot and uncomfortable rises in my chest. "What do you want me to say? That I'm pissed they missed every game? That I hate that my mom was too tired to ask about my day? That when I got my first NHL contract, my dad's first question was about how much money I could send home."

The words spill out, bitter and sharp. I stop abruptly, surprised by my reaction.

Elena doesn't flinch. "I think your anger makes perfect sense. And I think it explains a lot about your pattern of behavior."

"You mean why I'm such an asshole on the ice?"

"I mean why you've developed certain defense mechanisms." Her voice remains even, professional. "Your anger isn't random. It's a shield."

The observation strikes me like a physical blow. "A shield?" I repeat.

"Yes. When you feel vulnerable or threatened, you lash out. You push people away before they can reject you. You sabotage relationships before they become important enough to hurt you if they fail."

My hands are suddenly damp. She's reading me like a fucking book.

"That's quite a diagnosis from just a few sessions, Doc."

"It's not a diagnosis. It's an observation." She tilts her head slightly. "Am I wrong?"

I want to say yes, to dismiss her neat and tidy psychological packaging of my mess. But the words stick in my throat.

"No," I finally admit. "You're not wrong."

Something shifts in her expression—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. "Recognizing the pattern is the first step to changing it."

"Is that what you want? To change me?" I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Make me a good boy who plays nice with others?"

"I want to help you be the best version of yourself, on and off the ice." Her tone changes just slightly on those last words, reminding me of how very unprofessional we've been.

"And what if this is the best version?" I ask. "Pissed off, difficult, complicated?"

"I think you're selling yourself short." Her eyes meet mine directly. "I've seen glimpses of who you could be. That is, when you're not hiding behind that shield."

The timer on her desk chimes softly, signaling the end of our session. I continue to sit, reluctant to leave this space even though I've revealed much more than I intended.

"Same time next week?" she asks, therapist mask firmly back in place.

"Wouldn't miss it." I stand and flash her a killer smile. "You're my favorite kind of punishment, Doc."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight curve of her lips before she suppresses it. "That's not how therapy works."

"If you say so."

I move toward the door, every cell in my body screaming to touch her, to kiss her, to press her against the wall and remind her what happens when we're alone and not in these damn sessions. But I don't. I keep my hands to myself, maintaining distance.

Sometimes the most effective move is the one you don't actually make.

"Have a good week, Doc." I open the door, glancing back over my shoulder.

For a split second, I see disappointment flash across her face—she expected me to try something. Wanted me to, maybe. Good. Let her think about it. Let her wonder when I'll make a move.

Let her come to me next time.

I close the door behind me, exhaling slowly. My body feels strangely light, like I've set down a weight I've been carrying for too long. Is this what good therapy feels like? Or is it the rush of being truly seen by another person?

Either way, I'm hooked. And from the look in her eyes when I left, so is she.