Page 18

Nate

T he puck skitters across the ice. The crowd's roar fades to white noise as I intercept a pass, my muscles responding with practiced precision. But even as my body moves through the practiced movements of the game, my mind keeps circling back to one thought: Elena isn't here tonight.

I’ve checked the team box three times already, searching for her beautiful face among the others. But she's not there.

I skate harder, pushing the thought away.

Focus on the game. Focus on what you can control.

Dallas is playing particularly dirty tonight. Their defensemen are taking liberties, throwing elbows, and muttering taunts. I feel the usual anger rising in me, but force it down. I can't afford another penalty. Can't give Coach another reason to bench me.

I glide past the Dallas bench during a line change, catching snippets of their chatter.

"Fucking rookies," one of them spits. "Number 47's fair game."

Number 47 is Tucker, a nineteen-year-old kid in his first NHL season. Small but fast, with hands that can thread the puck through impossible spaces.

Play resumes. I watch more carefully now, noticing how the Stars' bruiser—Anderson, a six-foot-four enforcer with a reputation for destruction—keeps targeting Tucker.

A stick to the ribs here. A shoulder that's just a bit too high there.

Nothing blatant enough for the refs to call, but a clear message: we're coming for you, kid.

The second period winds down. The score remains tied 2-2, though the Blades are controlling the pace. Tucker cuts across the blue line with the puck, slipping past one defender with a slick move.

I see Anderson coming before Tucker does. The big man launches himself horizontally, aiming not for the puck but for Tucker's head.

I change direction, skating furiously toward them.

Too late. Anderson connects, his elbow driving into Tucker's jaw. The rookie crumples, helmet flying off, body folding like an accordion as he hits the ice.

Something snaps inside me. The rational part of my brain—the part that's been trying so hard to stay in control, to be the player Coach wants, the player Elena would be proud of—goes silent. In its place, pure protective rage comes out.

I reach Anderson before the refs can intervene. My gloves hit the ice first, followed by my helmet. I grab the larger man by the jersey, yanking him around.

"You want to take cheap shots?" I growl. "You fucking asshole."

Anderson grins, yellowing mouthguard visible. "Barnesy. Been waiting for this."

I don't waste words. My right fist connects with Anderson's jaw, a clean shot that snaps the man's head back. Pain explodes across my knuckles, but I barely register it. Anderson stumbles but doesn't fall, coming back with a wild swing that I partially block.

We grapple, jerseys stretching as we pull each other off-balance. The crowd is on their feet, a wall of noise surrounding us. I feel a fist connect with my ribs, then another at my temple. Stars burst in my vision, but adrenaline keeps me upright.

I land two more solid punches before the refs intervene, wrestling us apart. Blood drips from Anderson's nose, a bright crimson streak against the white ice. My lip is split, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

"Fuck you," Anderson spits.

"Try that shit again and see what happens," I call back, struggling against the ref's grip.

But we're not headed for the penalty boxes. The referee's arm is extended, pointing toward the locker room. Game misconduct for both of us. We're done for the night.

As I skate toward the tunnel, I pass the Blades' bench. Coach Martinez stands at the boards, face carved from stone, eyes cold with disappointment. Not anger—that would be easier to bear. Just that flat, empty look that says he expected more from me.

"Coach, he was targeting Tucker—" I start.

"Save it." Coach's voice is clipped. "Hit the showers."

Frustration bubbles up as I walk down the tunnel.

I did the right thing. Anderson was hunting Tucker and would have seriously injured the kid if someone hadn't stepped in.

But here I am, punished for protecting a teammate, while Coach looks at me like he's just proven every bad thing ever said about me.

In the locker room, I peel off my gear with angry, jerking movements. My knuckles are already swelling, blood crusting around a split in the skin. The medical staff will want to look at them, but I don’t want to deal with that right now.

Instead, I step into the shower, letting scalding water hammer my aching muscles. I press my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes.

Elena's face appears in my mind. Would she understand why I did it? Or would she give me that same disappointed look Coach did?

I shut off the water and towel dry, wincing as the rough fabric catches on my split knuckles. I pull on jeans and a hoodie, then make my way back to the tunnel. I can’t go back on the bench, but I want to show support for my teammates even after being booted from the game.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long night.

Later, Miller's Bar hums with the usual post-game crowd. I’m sitting alone at the corner of the bar, drinking a club soda with lime—no tequila tonight, though my body aches for the numbing relief it would bring.

My split knuckles throb each time I lift my glass, a physical reminder of the fight, of my frustration.

The rest of the team clusters around tables in the center of the room.

We lost 4-2 after my ejection, the defense falling apart in the third period.

No one seems to blame me—at least not openly—but I feel the weight of it anyway.

Another game where my emotions got the better of me.

Another disappointment for Coach. Another reason for Elena to keep her distance.

McCoy catches my eye from across the room and raises his beer in salute. "To Barnesy, for rearranging Anderson's ugly face!"

A chorus of cheers follows. I manage a tight smile and a nod, though the recognition feels hollow.

The bar is packed tonight, bodies pressed close in the dim light.

Women in tight dresses and high heels navigate the crowd, many casting glances toward our tables.

I’ve seen it a hundred times before—the post-game hunters looking for a professional athlete's attention.

I used to be their primary target. Used to enjoy it, too.

Tonight, I just want to be left alone with my thoughts.

"You're Nate Barnes, right?" A woman slides onto the empty stool beside me. She's objectively beautiful—long blonde hair, bright green eyes, curves poured into a black dress that leaves little to the imagination. "I saw your fight tonight. That was something."

"Thanks." I don’t try to make conversation. I don't even look directly at her.

She leans closer, undeterred. Her perfume is too strong. "I'm Amber. Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm good." I lift my glass slightly. "But thanks."

She places a manicured hand on my forearm, fingers trailing over my skin. "Are you sure? I make a great drinking buddy. Among other things."

A month ago, I would have already been leading her toward the door, anticipating a night of meaningless but satisfying distraction. Now, I gently remove her hand from my arm.

"I'm sure. But I’m not interested."

Her smile falters, confusion flickering across her face. "Seriously? I've heard things about you, you know. That you're fun. That you know how to show a girl a good time."

"Sorry to disappoint." I turn away slightly, making my disinterest clear. "I'm sure you'll find someone else here who fits the bill."

She huffs, sliding off the stool. "Your loss," she says over her shoulder as she walks away.

I exhale slowly, draining the last of my club soda. I should probably just head home. The noise, the crowd, the smell of old beer—it's all grating against my nerves. But home means an empty apartment and too much time alone with my thoughts of Elena.

"Can I get another?" I ask the bartender, pointing to my empty glass.

Twenty minutes later, as I’m contemplating leaving again, another woman appears at my side. This one is even more direct.

"Your place or mine?" She skips the pleasantries entirely, sliding a hand onto my thigh. Her red fingernails stand out starkly against my jeans. "I've always had a thing for bad boys who can throw a punch."

I glance at her hand, then at her face. She’s a dark-eyed beauty with ruby red lips. There's a hungry desperation in her expression that makes me uncomfortable.

What is it with these women pawing at me tonight? I remove her hand. "I’m not interested, darlin’."

Her eyes narrow. "What's your problem? Too good for me?"

"It's not that. I'm just not looking for company tonight."

"Bullshit." She leans in, the smell of vodka heavy on her breath. "I've seen you leave with girls before. What's different about tonight?"

"Everything," I say, surprising myself with the answer. "Everything's different."

She opens her mouth to respond, but a deep voice cuts in from behind them.

"Hey, Barnesy. What’s up?" Evan Daniels appears at my side, his expression neutral, but his posture making it clear he's ready to run interference.

The woman glances between us, then scowls. "Your friend's being an asshole." She stalks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Daniels slides onto the now-vacant stool. "That's at least the second one you've sent packing tonight. Have there been more that I missed?"

I shrug. "Nah, just the two."

"Interesting." Daniels signals the bartender. "Beer, please. Whatever's on tap." Then to me: "I don't think I've ever seen you turn down that kind of attention before."

"Maybe I'm evolving." I attempt a smile.

The bartender delivers Daniels' beer. He takes a long sip, studying me over the rim of the glass.

"That was a good thing you did tonight," he says finally. "Stepping in for Tucker."

"Tell that to Coach. Or the refs." My tone is bitter. "All they saw was me starting another fight."

"Coach knows what Anderson was doing," Daniels says. "He just wants you to find smarter ways to handle it."

"Like what? Asking Anderson to pretty, pretty please stop targeting our rookie?"

Daniels takes another sip. "Fighting isn't always the answer, you know."

I flex my sore hand. "Sometimes it’s the only thing that works, though."

"For hockey, maybe." Daniels' voice drops lower, more serious. "Not for whatever else is going on with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've known you long enough to recognize when something's eating at you, and it's not just about tonight's game.

" He gestures toward the women now clustered at the far end of the bar, occasionally glancing our way.

"It also means I know you well enough to find it very strange that you're turning down sure things like that. So what gives?"

I consider lying to Daniels or deflecting with a joke. But I’m tired of pretending, and Daniels has always been straight with me.

"There's someone," I admit, the words feeling strange in my mouth.

Daniels' eyebrows rise. "Someone? As in, someone specific? As in, you're actually interested in more than a one-night stand?"

"Don't look so shocked." I smirk at him. "But yeah. Someone specific."

"Do I know her?"

"I'd rather not say. It's... complicated."

Daniels doesn't push. Instead, he asks, "So what's the problem? She’s not interested?"

"No, she's interested. We've been..." I search for the right word. "Close. But now she's avoiding me."

"What did you do?"

I shoot him an irritated look. "Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because I know you." His tone is matter-of-fact, not judgmental. "And because you look like someone kicked your dog, which means you feel guilty about something."

The accuracy of the assessment stings. I sigh, relenting. "I said some things I shouldn't have. Accused her of... using me, basically. When really I was just scared of how I felt."

"Ah." Daniels nods slowly. "And how do you feel?"

"Like I can't get her out of my head," I say, looking away. "Like she sees parts of me no one else does. Like when I'm with her, I'm actually the person I want to be, not the person everyone expects me to be."

"Sounds serious."

"Maybe." I stare at my empty glass. "Doesn't matter now. I fucked it up, like I always do. Picked a fight when what I really wanted was to be closer to her."

Daniels is quiet for a moment, lost in contemplation. Then he says, "You know, you can't fight your way out of real feelings, Barnesy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means your whole life, you've dealt with things by fighting—literally or figuratively. Someone threatens you? Throw a punch. Someone gets too close? Push them away with words. But real feelings don't work like that. They don't go away just because you get angry or defensive."

The words hit with unexpected force.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Try apologizing. Sincerely. Without excuses." Daniels finishes his beer. "And maybe stop trying to fight whatever it is you're feeling for her. It sounds like it might be worth hanging onto."

I take this in, turning it over in my mind. It sounds so simple when Daniels says it. But with Elena, nothing is simple. Not the beginning, not the present, and certainly not the future—if there even is one.

Still, the idea takes root. Stop fighting it. Stop pushing her away because I’m scared of how much she means to me. Stop sabotaging something good because I don't believe I deserve it.

"I'll think about it," I finally say.

Daniels claps me on the shoulder as he stands. "That's all anyone can ask." He checks his watch. "I've got to get home. You going to be okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. I'm good."

As Daniels walks away, I think about how I need to talk to Elena. Not to fight, not to push, but to tell her the truth. All of it.

Even if it means risking everything.