Page 19

Nate

I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, standing outside Elena's office door like a rookie before his first game. It's been a week since our last session, since I pushed too hard and she walked out. Since I showed up at her hotel room door and she refused to answer.

I take a deep breath, running a hand through my hair. The door finally opens.

"Nate." Elena stands in the doorway, notebook clutched to her chest like armor. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. "You can come in."

I follow her into the office, catching a hint of her perfume—that clean, subtle scent that reminds me of the times I’ve been so close to her.

"So," I flash her my most charming smile, complete with dimple, as I drop into the chair across from her. "How's your week been, Doc?"

Her face remains neutral, though I catch a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. "I'd rather discuss your week, Nate. How are you feeling after Saturday's game?"

Of course she'd go straight to business. No small talk. No acknowledgment of what happened between us last week. Nothing about me waiting outside her hotel room like some lovesick teenager.

"Oh, you know, just your typical night." I lean back, working to keep my tone light. "Score a goal, defend a teammate, get ejected. All in a day's work for me apparently."

Elena makes a note on her pad and then her eyes flick back up to meet mine. "Do you feel your response to Anderson going after Tucker was appropriate?"

"Do you?" I counter.

"This isn't about what I think."

"Isn't it, though?" I sit forward, elbows on my knees. "Come on, Elena. I’m guessing you saw the footage of what Anderson was doing to the kid. Or were you there to see it in person?"

"I wasn’t at the game. But I did watch the video. I'm asking what you think about your response."

Her professional wall is up today, sky high and solid.

I can't quite keep the edge from my voice. "Was it the most constructive response? Probably not. But it got the job done. It got Anderson off of Tucker’s back."

"At the cost of a penalty and a loss."

"The team lost because our defense fell apart in the third." I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with the truth in her words. "But point taken."

She nods, writing something else. I wish I could see what she's putting down. Is it about me as a player, or about my shortcomings as a human being?

"Let's try a different angle," she says. "How did it feel, being benched for the remainder of the game?"

"Like shit." The words come out before I can filter them. "Watching from the tunnel where I can’t do a damn thing, knowing I could have helped if I'd just..." I trail off.

"Just what?"

"Found a different way to handle it." I say, chewing on the inside of my mouth and looking up at the ceiling. "Look, I don’t think I was wrong to defend Tucker. That kid's barely out of high school, and Anderson's got at least fifty pounds on him. Someone had to step in."

"I agree."

I blink, surprised. "You do?"

"Of course. Protecting your teammates is admirable." The smallest hint of warmth enters her voice. "It's your method that needs adjustment."

"Yeah, well, I'm working on that. Self-control hasn't exactly been my strong suit. As my history demonstrates."

She almost smiles at that. Almost. "Are you concerned about potential disciplinary action from the league?"

"A bit. But it was a first offense this season, and Anderson threw punches, too. So I’ll probably just end up with a fine."

Elena makes another note, and when she’s done, I catch her glancing at my hands. At the scabbed-over knuckles from the fight.

"Do they hurt?" she asks, her voice softening just slightly.

"Nah," I lie. They actually throb like a motherfucker every time I flex them.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Seriously?"

"Maybe a little," I admit. "Worth it though."

"I'm not going to let it happen again," I say suddenly.

Her pen pauses on the page. "The fighting?"

"Getting benched. Letting the team down." I meet her eyes directly. "I'm serious about changing, Doc." I say. "I know everyone thinks it's just talk. That I'll never really get my shit together. But I want to prove them wrong."

"I believe you want to change, Nate."

"But you don't believe I can."

"I didn't say that." She sets her pen down. "Change is possible for anyone who truly commits to it. But it takes work. Consistent effort. And a willingness to develop new coping mechanisms."

"That's what I want your help with." I lean forward again, earnest now. "I need better ways to handle it when I feel that... that heat rising, you know? That moment when everything goes red and all I can think about is hitting something."

She studies me for a moment, her walls slipping just enough that I can see she might be excited about the opportunity.

"Alright," she says finally. "There are techniques we can work on. Breathing exercises, visualization, trigger identification. But they only work if you practice them consistently."

"I will." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. "I mean it, Doc. I'm sick of being the problem child. The guy who can't control himself. The liability."

She tilts her head slightly. "Is that how you see yourself? As a liability?"

I look away, uncomfortable with how easily she cuts to the core of things.

"Sometimes," I admit. "Most of the time, actually. Three teams in five years doesn't exactly scream 'valuable asset'."

"And yet the Blades wanted you back."

"They wanted my scoring back. Not my baggage, though. Nobody wants my baggage."

"I think you underestimate your value." Her voice is quiet but firm. "Coach wouldn't have brought you back if he didn't believe in your potential."

"I’m not sure if he had much choice in the matter."

Elena looks directly into my eyes. "He saw something in you worth investing in. Beyond just your skill on the ice."

"I want to prove him right," I say softly. "And I want to prove to you that I can do this—that I can make these changes."

Our eyes lock, and for a brief moment, the distance between us evaporates. I see an understanding in her gaze—she knows exactly what I mean. This isn't just about hockey anymore. It's about me becoming the kind of man who deserves someone like her.

"We should get started on those techniques," she says, breaking the connection, but her voice has a gentleness to it that wasn't there before. "Let's begin with breathing exercises."

As she guides me through controlled breathing patterns, I focus entirely on her words, her voice.

I'm going to master this. I'm going to change.

Not just for my career, not just for the team, but for her.

Because somewhere along the way, proving myself to Elena Martinez became more important than proving myself to anyone else.

I try to focus on the breathing pattern she's teaching me—in for four, hold for seven, out for eight—but her proximity is fucking with my concentration.

She's moved to the chair next to me rather than at her desk, and all I can think about is the subtle movement of her chest as she breathes, and how she smells so damn good.

I'm supposed to be focusing on controlling my emotions, but right now, they're running wild in directions that have nothing to do with anger management and breathing techniques.

"You're not breathing, Nate," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice.

I exhale sharply. "Sorry. I’m distracted."

"The point is to focus on your breath, not hold it." She demonstrates again, her belly rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. "When you feel yourself getting triggered, this pulls you back to the present moment."

"Right." I attempt to follow her lead, but my lungs feel tight, like they can't expand properly. Not with her this close. Not with everything unsaid hanging between us.

After a few more attempts, she sits back in her chair, studying me. "You're struggling with this. What can I do to help?"

"Just having an off day." I offer a weak smile.

She tilts her head slightly. "Is there something specific on your mind that's making it difficult to focus?"

There's my opening. I could deflect with a joke, keep things light. That's what the old Nate would do—avoid vulnerability at all costs. But I'm trying to be better than that now.

"Yeah." I look down at my hands, at the healing cuts across my knuckles. "There is something."

Elena waits, giving me space to continue. The silence stretches between us, charged with possibility.

"I've been thinking about what you said before. About how I push people away when they get too close. And you're right. I do that. I've always done that."

"It's a common defense mechanism," she says softly.

"Maybe." I look up, meeting her eyes. "But knowing why I do it doesn't make it any easier to stop."

She nods, encouraging me to continue.

"The thing is..." I take a deep breath, forcing the words out. "I think I push people away because I don't believe I deserve them in the first place. Not really."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "Say more."

"It's like..." I struggle to find the right words. "After Teddy died, my parents made it pretty clear I wasn't worth loving. Not their fault, I guess. I'd killed their favorite son."

"Nate—" she starts, but I hold up a hand.

"I know, I know. It wasn't my fault. Six-year-olds don't understand consequences. But that message got burned into my brain, you know? That I was a horrible human. That I wasn't worth the effort."

"And you've carried that belief into adulthood."

"I guess I have." I let out a bitter laugh. "Look at my track record. I sabotage everything good in my life because some part of me doesn't believe I deserve it."

"And what about now?" Her voice is quiet. "What good things are you afraid of sabotaging now?"

Our eyes lock, and suddenly we're not psychologist and client anymore. We're just Nate and Elena, two people with an undeniable connection and a mountain of complications between them.

"This," I say simply. "Us."

She doesn't pretend not to understand. Doesn't retreat. She just sits there, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on mine, something raw and honest in her expression.

"I know I messed up." My voice drops lower. "I said things I didn't mean because I was scared. Because I was afraid and I did what I always do—I pushed you away before you could decide I wasn't worth the trouble."

Her throat moves as she swallows. "Nate, we can't?—"

"I'm not asking for anything you can't give," I interrupt gently. "I just want you to know that I understand why I did it. And I'm sorry. And I'd like another chance with you."

The office feels too small suddenly, the air too thick. Elena's eyes drop to her hands, which are clasped tightly in her lap.

"I don't know what you want me to say." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Say what you feel."

She looks up at me, sadness written across her face. "What I feel doesn't matter. There are rules, Nate. Ethics. My career?—"

"I know." I lean forward, not touching her but close enough that I could. "But tell me anyway. Please."

A moment passes, then another. I can practically see the battle happening behind her eyes—duty versus desire, professionalism versus passion.

"I feel..." She hesitates, then continues in a rush, "I obviously feel things for you that I shouldn’t. Things that could cost me everything I've worked for."

My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to break free. "And if I wasn't your client?"

"But you are." There's a note of frustration in her voice now. "And even if you weren't, you're still a player on this team. There's no scenario where this doesn't put my career at risk."

"We could be careful," I suggest, though even as I say it, I know how foolish it sounds. "No one would have to know."

She gives me a look that's both tender and exasperated. "You know that's not realistic. People already suspect something. I overheard two women talking in the bathroom."

I look at her, confused. "What did they say?"

"Enough." She shakes her head. "The point is, it's not just about rules on paper. It's about my credibility. Everything I've built."

I nod slowly, understanding washing over me like cold water. "I get it. I do. And I would never ask you to throw all that away for me."

The timer on her phone chimes softly, signaling the end of our session. Neither of us moves.

"I should go," I say finally, but I don't stand.

"Yeah, you should." Her voice lacks conviction.

We stare at each other. Then we both lean forward at the same time. Our faces drift closer, drawn by some magnetic pull neither of us can resist. My eyes drop to her lips, slightly parted, and I can feel her breath on my face.

At the last possible moment, she pulls back, hand rising to her mouth like she can't believe what almost happened.

"I can't." Her voice breaks on the words. "I can't lose everything because of my feelings for you."

The phrase hits me like a physical blow, not because it's cruel but because it's true. That's what I am—a risk, a liability.

She stands abruptly, moving toward the door, opening it in a clear signal that our time is up. That this—whatever this is between us—is up.

I rise slowly, legs feeling unsteady. As I pass her in the doorway, our shoulders brush briefly, and even that small contact sends electricity coursing through me.

"Elena," I say softly, so only she can hear.

"Please go." Her eyes plead with me. "Just go."

I step into the hallway, turning to watch as she closes the door. Just before it shuts completely, I glimpse her face—the conflict, the desire, the regret all mingled together.

And as I walk away, a thought forms in my mind with such clarity and force that it stops me in my tracks: I'd give it all up for you, Elena.

The realization stuns me. I've never put anyone else first—not a teammate, not a coach, not a woman. My career has always been the priority, the only thing I truly valued. Yet here I am, ready to risk it all for Elena Martinez.

No woman has ever gotten under my skin this way. The fact that she has scares the hell out of me, but it also feels like waking up after a long, dreamless sleep. Like finally feeling something real after years of going through the motions.