Page 17

Elena

M y alarm pierces the silence, dragging me from a fitful sleep. I reach for my phone and turn it off.

I was really hoping to get a run in this morning, but when I was still awake at midnight last night, I decided to set the alarm for a later time and skip the run.

I continue to lie in bed for a minute, checking my texts. No messages from Nate. I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, which tells me everything I need to know about how deep I'm in with this mess.

The memory of last night's text from the hotel front desk flashes through my mind: "Ms. Martinez, there's a gentleman waiting outside your room.

Would you like us to assist?" I had replied: “No thanks. Everything is fine.” I couldn’t very well tell them I was hiding in my room, trying to avoid the man I can't stop thinking about. And that if I let him in, I’ll certainly sleep with him yet again.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I head into the bathroom for a shower. Even though I don’t really have the time, I use all my favorite products including the full body exfoliator. I’m hopeful a little self-care will relax me.

I finally get out and steam fogs the mirror as I mechanically move through my morning routine. Concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Mascara. Blush. Armor against the day ahead.

"You can't keep doing this," I tell my reflection. "You can't keep sleeping with him."

The words hang in the air, ugly and undeniable. Nate is my client. Not my lover. Not my boyfriend. My client. A man whose mind I'm supposed to help untangle, not whose body I'm supposed to enjoy.

I drag a brush through my hair, pulling at the tangles with unnecessary force. How did I get here? I've never even been tempted to do anything like this before. I've spent years earning respect in a field dominated by men twice my age. And for what? To throw it all away for a bad boy hockey player?

But he's not just that, whispers a voice in my head. You've seen the real Nate Barnes now. The vulnerability behind the swagger. The pain behind the smirk.

And that's the problem, isn't it? I haven't just crossed a physical boundary. I've crossed an emotional one, too. I care about him in a way that makes objectivity impossible.

I slip into a burgundy sweater dress and black suede boots, trying to get psyched up for a day I'm dreading.

My hands shake slightly as I fasten tiny gold hoop earrings.

What am I going to do? I can't treat him anymore.

Not after yesterday. Not after he laid his soul bare about his brother, about the fire.

Not after I walked out during our session when he pushed my buttons.

Not after he came to my hotel room begging for forgiveness.

The ethical thing would be to ask to be reassigned. To tell my father I can't continue treating Nate.

My stomach clenches at the thought. Dad will want answers. Explanations. He already warned me about Nate's manipulative charm. What would he think if he knew I've fallen for him completely? That I've done far more than fall for him—I've invited it into my bed and between my legs?

He’d be shocked and disappointed. And he'd have every right to be.

I pour coffee into a travel mug, the rich aroma failing to provide its usual comfort. I add more cream than I normally allow myself, trying to bring some happiness into my day.

The right thing to do is clear. I need to remove myself from Nate's treatment. But the consequences of that action won’t be easy to deal with.

I take a big gulp of too-hot coffee and wince. I have two choices: confess everything and deal with the fallout, or find a way to work professionally with Nate going forward. No more talk about sex during our sessions. No more lingering looks. No more heated encounters in parked cars.

Can I do that? Can I sit across from him, knowing what I know, feeling what I feel, and maintain detachment?

I grab my keys and bag, shutting the hotel door behind me. The morning is gray, matching my mood as I walk to my car.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel before starting the car. "You can do this," I whisper to myself. "You have to."

But as I drive toward the training facility, I can't stop the wave of longing that washes over me. Not just for Nate's body, though god knows I crave that. But for his smile. His laugh. The spark in his eyes when he banters with me. The vulnerability he showed me when he talked about his brother.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts. This ends now. It has to.

After my 9 a.m. session with McCoy, I head to the ladies’ room. I’m in a stall peeing and scanning social media when I hear two voices I don’t recognize.

"Have you seen the way Barnesy looks at her?" voice one asks, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's like he's mentally undressing her every time she walks by."

I freeze. They can't be talking about?—

"Elena Martinez?" voice two snorts. "Please. She's Coach's daughter. Besides, she's too uptight for someone like Barnesy."

My stomach drops to my feet. They're talking about me. About us. I’m completely silent now, waiting to hear more.

"I don't know," voice one continues. "I saw them in the parking lot last week. Standing really close. And the way she looks at him when she thinks no one's watching? There's definitely something there."

"No way. She's way too professional for that. Plus, hello, ethics violation much? She's his therapist."

"Ethics, schmethics. Chemistry like that doesn't care about the rules. And I'm telling you, there's definitely chemistry."

Their voices drift as they move to the sinks. Water runs. Hand dryers blast.

"I guess time will tell," voice one says as their voices move toward the door. "But if you're right, she's risking a lot. Her dad would flip if he found out."

"Worth it though, if the rumors about Barnesy are true. All those tattoos? You know what they say about guys with tattoos..."

Their laughter fades as the door swings shut behind them. I remain frozen in the stall, pulse thudding in my ears. Someone knows. Or at least suspects. How many others have noticed? How many whispered conversations like this one have happened when I wasn't around to hear them?

I wait five long minutes before emerging, checking to make sure the restroom is empty. My reflection stares back at me, cheeks flushed with mortification, as I wash my hands. I need help. I need to talk to someone before I totally lose my mind.

When I get back to my office, I lock the door behind me and pull out my phone. My fingers move automatically, dialing the one person who won't judge me—at least not too harshly.

Reese answers on the third ring. “Hey, girl!”

"I'm sleeping with a client."

Silence. Then: "I'm sorry, I think I hallucinated. It sounded like you said?—"

"I'm sleeping with a client, Reese. A hockey player. On my dad's team."

More silence, longer this time. I can picture her, glasses perched on her nose, her phone pressed so tightly to her ear that it leaves a mark. I hear her whisper to her teaching assistant tht she needs to step out of class.

"Holy shit, Elena." Her voice drops to a whisper and I can tell she’s in the school hall now. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious." I sink into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "And it gets worse. It's Nate Barnes."

" The Nate Barnes? The one who got traded multiple times for being such an asshole? The one your dad specifically hired you to fix?"

"That's the one."

"Jesus Christ, Elena. What were you thinking?" There’s no judgment in her tone, just genuine confusion. That's why I called her.

"I wasn't thinking. That's the problem." I rub my forehead, feeling a headache forming. "It started before I knew who he was. We met at the hotel bar and spent the night together. Then he walked into my office the next day for his first session with me."

"Oh my god." She sounds both horrified and fascinated. "So you only slept with him once? Please tell me it was a one-time thing."

I don't answer. The silence stretches.

"Elena Maria Martinez." She uses my full name, something she only does when she's truly alarmed. "Tell me you didn't continue sleeping with him after you knew he was your client."

"I tried to stop." My voice sounds small. "I really did. But then we had a session, and he was vulnerable and real, and somehow we ended up... on my desk."

"Your desk? In your office?" Her voice rises an octave. "Are you trying to get fired? Do you know what your dad would do if he knew about this?"

"Of course I know!" I snap, then immediately regret it. "I'm sorry. I'm just... I don't know what's wrong with me, Reese. This isn't me. I don't do things like this."

"Clearly you do." Her tone softens slightly. "What is it about this guy? Is the sex that good?"

I feel my face flush. "Yes. But it's not just that. He's... complicated. There's so much more to him than his bad boy reputation. He had this horrible childhood trauma that shaped everything about him. He's fighting so hard to change. And when he lets down his guard, when he's really himself..."

"Oh no." Reese's voice drops. "You're falling for him."

"No. Maybe. I don't know." I press my fingers against my closed eyelids. "It doesn't matter anyway. It has to stop. People are starting to talk. I just overheard two staff members speculating about us in the bathroom."

"Shit." She sighs. "Okay, damage control time. You need to end it immediately. No more sessions with him. No more... desk activities. And you need to request reassignment from his case."

"I can't. Dad would want to know why."

"So lie. Say you don't think you're making progress with him. Say he reminds you of an ex. Say anything but you’ve got to get out of this."

"He'll see through it. He already warned me about Nate's charm, told me not to fall for it."

"And yet here we are." The gentle teasing in her voice takes the sting out of the words. "Seriously, Elena. You need to fix this before it blows up in your face. Your entire career could be over if the wrong person finds out."

"I know." The weight of it all presses down on me. "I'll figure something out."

A brief silence falls between us. Then Reese asks the question I've been avoiding: "Is it worth it? Whatever this is with him—is it worth risking everything you've built?"

The question hits me hard. Is it worth it? The crazy passion. The way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world. The vulnerability in his eyes when he told me about his brother. The feeling of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine.

"I don't know," I whisper. The truth of it settles in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. "But I can't lose my job."

I say the words with as much conviction as I can muster, needing to hear them out loud, needing to believe them.

Because the alternative is too frightening to contemplate—that I might actually be willing to risk everything for a man who, by his own admission, doesn't know how to let people get close without pushing them away.

A man who, despite everything, has somehow gotten closer to me than anyone has in years.