Page 20

Elena

I reach for my phone, squinting against its harsh light. What I see makes my stomach clench. Five missed calls from Dad. Three texts.

The most recent text glows on my screen: "Call me as soon as you wake up."

Below it, a link to a sports site I vaguely recognize—one of those sites that is flooded with rumors and gossip about players' personal lives. My thumb hovers over it, afraid to press it. Whatever waits on the other side of that link has my father calling me repeatedly at the butt crack of dawn.

I tap it. The page loads slowly, taunting me with each incremental reveal.

The headline hits me first: "CHICAGO BLADES BAD BOY'S LATEST CONQUEST."

Below it, a grainy, dark photo that makes my blood freeze in my veins.

It's Nate and I walking together in the training facility parking lot.

His head is bent toward mine, and I'm looking up at him, laughing at something he's said.

We're not touching, but we might as well be.

The intimacy is undeniable, written in the angle of our bodies leaning toward each other.

I’m almost certain it was the night we had sex in my car. However, there were a couple of other times we happened to be leaving at the same time and walked to our cars together. I pray it was one of those nights instead.

My fingers go numb as I scroll down, reading snippets of the article.

"...sources close to the team confirm Barnes has been spending considerable time with a female staff member..."

"...notorious for his conquests both on and off the ice..."

"...unclear how long the relationship has been going on..."

"...identity of the woman remains unconfirmed, but speculation is rampant..."

Bile rises in my throat. I rush to the bathroom and start dry heaving over the toilet. When I’m done, my legs tremble as I slump against the cool porcelain, trying to steady my breathing and think through the fog of panic clouding my mind.

This can't be happening. We were careful. We were discreet.

Except we weren't, were we? Not really. Not when we were having sex in my car in the parking lot.

Not when we were exchanging not-so-subtle glances across crowded rooms. Not when half the building could probably feel the electricity crackling between us whenever we were within twenty feet of each other.

I get back in bed and pick up my phone again, scrolling through comments beneath the article. Speculation is already spiraling out of control.

"Bet it's that hot trainer."

"Nah, it's definitely the PR chick with the legs."

"Barnesy is such a player. Give it two weeks before he's onto the next one."

"Lucky bitch, whoever she is."

Lucky bitch? Seriously? As if this situation is something to be envied. As if I'm not watching my entire career potentially crumbling before my eyes.

I scroll back up to study the photo again, searching for details. It's dark, grainy—taken from a distance with a phone camera, most likely. It’s fairly easy to figure out it’s Nate, but there’s a shadow across my face that makes me almost unrecognizable.

My mind races back to that night. The sex was so hot—I can still remember the way his hands and mouth felt on my body.

Was someone watching us that whole time? Taking pictures? My skin crawls at the thought. What if they have more photos? What if they caught us in my car, windows fogged, bodies pressed together?

I scroll through more comments, looking for clues or any indication that more damning evidence might exist. There's nothing specific, just the usual toxic mix of speculation and vulgarity that accompanies any hint of scandal.

Should I call Nate? Warn him? My thumb hovers over his contact information, but I hesitate. What would I even say? "Hey, there’s a picture of us on the internet right before we had sex in my car"?

Besides, knowing Nate, he'd probably just laugh it off. Say something about how the press refuses to leave him alone. He’d look at it and tell me no one is ever going to recognize who I am from that shitty photo.

My phone buzzes again, another text from Dad: "My office. 8 AM sharp."

Shit. Right. My dad… I’m guessing he recognized me because, otherwise, why would he be dragging me into this?

I force myself to get up, my mind running through possible explanations, excuses, and denials. None of them sounds convincing.

In the shower, I scrub my skin, as if I can wash away the evidence of my poor judgment.

I dress quickly, choosing a cream silk blouse and tailored pants—professional, unremarkable, nothing like the woman laughing up at Nate Barnes in that grainy photo. As I reach for my necklace—my mother's cross—I hesitate. It's slightly visible in the photo. Perhaps I shouldn’t wear it today.

I put it on anyway. I need to feel my mom close to me today. My fingers tremble as I fasten the clasp.

Time to face the consequences.

As I enter the training facility thirty minutes later, the halls stretch longer than usual.

Every step toward my father's office feels like a small death.

My mouth is dry, my palms damp, and somewhere beneath my ribs, a knot of dread pulls tighter with each passing second.

I've rehearsed a dozen explanations during the drive here, each one less convincing than the last.

I pause outside Dad’s door, my hand hovering over the handle. I've never been afraid of my father before. Anxious to please him, yes. Worried about disappointing him, absolutely. But afraid? Never. Until now.

I knock twice, softly.

"Come in." His voice is clipped.

I push the door open. Dad stands behind his desk, arms crossed, face set in hard lines I barely recognize. His laptop is open.

"Close the door," he says.

I do. The click of the latch feels final, trapping me in this moment I've been dreading since I first crossed the line with Nate.

"Sit down."

I perch on the edge of the chair across from his desk, spine rigid, hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. He just stares at me like he doesn’t know where to start.

"I've had twelve calls this morning," he says finally. "From the GM. From PR. From our social media team. Even from the owner. All about this." He jabs a finger at the screen, finally meeting my eyes. "Tell me it's not you."

The lie forms on my tongue—a reflexive, self-protective impulse—but dies before I say it. His eyes are boring into mine, searching for the truth he already suspects.

"Dad—"

"Tell me," he cuts me off, "that my daughter isn't stupid enough to get involved with Nate Barnes. That a team psychologist isn't compromising her ethics, her career, and this team's stability for a player known for being one of the biggest playboys in the league."

I swallow hard. "I can explain?—"

"It is you." Not a question this time. His body slumps slightly, disappointment settling over him like a physical weight. "I recognized the necklace. Your mother's cross."

My hand flies to my throat, fingers finding the small silver pendant that's been my talisman since Mom died. The ultimate betrayal—that the last connection to my mother would be what exposes my indiscretion.

"Yes," I whisper. "It's me."

Dad sinks into his chair, running a hand over his face. He suddenly looks older; the lines around his eyes are deeper and more pronounced.

"How long?" he asks.

"It's not—we're not—" I struggle to define what Nate and I are, what we've been doing. "It's complicated."

"No, Elena, it's not complicated. It's wrong." His voice rises slightly. "He’s your client. You're supposed to be helping him manage his behavior, not encouraging this type of scenario."

"That's not fair," I say, a flicker of indignation cutting through my shame. "I'm not encouraging anything. It just... happened."

"Things like this don't 'just happen.' You make choices. Bad ones, in this case." He leans forward, pinning me with his gaze. "Do you have any idea how this looks? What people will say when they figure out who you are?"

"No one knows it's me. Except for you." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.

"Not yet. But they will. Someone will recognize you, or Barnesy will tell someone, or?—"

"He wouldn't do that," I interrupt. Whatever Nate's faults, betraying my confidence isn't one of them.

Dad laughs, a sound full of disbelief. "You think you know him that well?

After what, a few weeks? I've coached men like him for thirty years.

They're charming, they're talented, and they're completely self-centered.

When this blows over, he'll be fine. He'll move on to the next team, the next woman.

But you?" He shakes his head. "Your reputation will be destroyed. "

His words hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark. Because beneath my defensiveness, I know he's not wrong. This is exactly what I've been telling myself, what I've been trying to make Nate understand.

"I know," I say softly. "I know it was a mistake."

"A mistake?" Dad stands again, unable to contain his agitation. "Elena, this isn't like forgetting to lock your car or showing up late for a meeting. This is your career. Your future. Everything you've worked for."

"Don't you think I know that?" My voice breaks.

"Don't you think I've been torturing myself about this?

I never meant for any of this to happen.

" I then go on to tell him about how we first met, how I didn’t know who he was, and how we slept together that night.

All the things you never want to have to tell your dad about…

"Okay, so it happened. And now we have to deal with it." He shuts his laptop, like he can't bear to look at the photo anymore. "Fortunately, the press doesn't seem to know who you are yet.”

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"It stops now. Whatever this is between you and Barnesy, it's over. You request reassignment from his case—cite a conflict of interest, say you don't think you're making progress with him, whatever you need to. We'll bring in another psychologist from outside if necessary."

"And if people figure out it was me in the photo?"

"We say it was taken out of context. Two team members having a professional conversation." He sighs heavily. "But Elena, if anyone on the management team figures out what was really going on between you two... I won't be able to protect you. Not from this."

The threat hangs in the air between us. My father has always been my champion, my safety net. But there are limits to what even he can do.

"I understand," I say.

"Do you? Because I'm not sure you grasp how serious this is. It's not just about your job here. If word gets out that you were involved with a client, you could lose your license."

My eyes burn with unshed tears. "I said I understand."

Dad finally sits back down, the anger draining from him, leaving only weary disappointment. "I never thought I'd have to have this conversation with you, Elena. You've always been so sensible, so focused."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I mean it. Sorry for disappointing him.

Sorry for jeopardizing everything. Sorry for the mess I've created.

But beneath all that, there's a part of me that isn't sorry at all—the part that remembers how it feels to be in Nate's arms, to see the vulnerability beneath his arrogance, to feel wholly alive for the first time in years.

"Sorry doesn't fix this," Dad says. "Actions do. Separate yourself from him. Today."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"I need to get to a meeting. We'll talk more later." He stands, and as I rise to leave, he adds, "And Elena? Take off that necklace. At least until this blows over."

I reach up and unclasp the necklace, the silver warm from my skin as I place it in my pocket. It feels like surrendering a piece of myself.

I walk out of his office, forcing myself to hold my head high. But inside, I'm crumbling, caught between duty and desire, between the person I've always been and the woman Nate makes me want to be.