Page 21

Nate

I slide my gear bag off my shoulder and drop onto the bench in the locker room. Sleep didn't come easy last night, not with Elena's face burned into my brain. I keep thinking about our last session and how she shut me down when I told her how I felt about her.

"Hey, Barnesy!" McCoy's voice cuts through the locker room chatter. He's grinning like he just scored in overtime. "Didn't know you were such a celebrity these days."

I glance up while reaching for my practice jersey. "What are you talking about, man?"

"Don't play dumb." He shoves his phone in my face. "You're internet famous, baby."

The screen is too close to my eyes, but I can make out a headline and what looks like a dark, grainy photo. I snatch the phone from his hand, my stomach dropping as I read: "CHICAGO BLADES BAD BOY'S LATEST CONQUEST."

"What the fuck is this?" I mutter, though I already know.

The photo is shit quality—obviously taken at night from a distance. It shows me and a woman walking in what I recognize as the training facility parking lot. My head is bent toward her, and she's looking up at me, laughing.

It's Elena. Without question.

"So?" McCoy drops onto the bench beside me, nudging my shoulder. "Who's the mystery woman? PR girl? That new nutritionist with the ass to die for?"

I zoom in on Elena's face, studying it carefully. Her features are obscured by shadows, the image too pixelated to make out any details beyond the vague outline of her face. The only distinguishing feature is a small glint at her throat—her necklace, the one I've seen her touch when she's nervous.

"Nobody's going to recognize her from this garbage," I say, handing the phone back to McCoy. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

"So you admit there is a her." McCoy's grin widens.

"I'm not admitting shit." I start changing into my practice gear. "It's just another bullshit story from people with nothing better to do."

"Come on, man." He won't let it go. "The whole team knows you've been different lately. More focused. Less of an asshole—most of the time at least. There's gotta be a reason."

I pull my practice jersey over my head, buying time to think. "I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

McCoy laughs. "You turned down at least three smoking hot women at Miller's the other night. All three of which I would have taken home, no questions asked. That's not the Barnesy I know."

Other guys filter into the locker room, and they’re all talking about the picture. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Yo, Barnesy!" Tucker calls from across the room. "My sister wants to know if you're officially off the market."

This sets off a round of laughter and catcalls. I force a smirk. But my mind is racing, not with worry for myself—I'm used to this kind of attention—but for Elena. What if someone recognizes her? What if her dad sees the photo and knows it’s her?

"Look at his face," one of the defensemen says. "He's actually blushing. Holy shit, Barnes is in love."

"Fuck off," I mutter.

Wilson, who’s well known for sleeping with puck bunnies, sits down next to me. "Seriously though, who is she? Anyone we know?"

I stand, pulling on my gloves. "A gentleman never tells."

This prompts another round of laughter, even louder this time.

"You're no gentleman, Barnesy, so spill…" McCoy says, standing too. "Who is it?"

I flash a mysterious smile but remain silent. I’m enjoying the attention but fuck if I’m going to tell these dickheads who’s in the picture with me.

The questions keep coming as I finish getting ready, each one adding to the knot of tension in my chest.

Coach's voice booms from the doorway: "Ice in five, ladies! Move your asses!"

Relief washes over me at the interruption. I grab my stick and head for the door, ignoring the continued ribbing from my teammates. As I pass Coach Martinez, I can't help but search his face for any sign that he knows—that he's seen the photo and recognized his daughter.

His expression remains neutral, focused on the practice ahead. Does that mean he hasn't seen it? Or is he just really good at hiding his feelings?

The cool air of the rink hits my face as I step onto the ice. Usually the scrape, scrape, scrape of my blades centers me. But not today. Instead, I’m thinking about Elena, wondering if she's seen the article and whether she's panicking.

I push hard during warm-up laps, hoping the physical exertion will clear my head. No such luck, though.

Daniels glides up beside me, his goalie pads making his movements awkward. "You good?"

"Yeah," I lie, skating a little faster. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you just missed a pass that hit you right on the tape." He matches my pace. "And because I've seen the picture."

I slow down slightly, glancing at him. "It's nothing. Just the usual bullshit."

"Uh-huh." His tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me. "Just be careful, Barnesy. Whatever—or whoever—has got you all twisted up lately... make sure she’s worth it."

Before I can respond, Coach blows his whistle, calling us to center ice for drills. Daniels shoots me one last look before skating away, leaving me with his words echoing in my head.

Is it worth it? The question bounces around in my head as I line up for passing drills. Elena's career versus my feelings for her. Her future versus whatever this thing is between us.

I need to talk to Elena. And soon.

After practice, I stand outside Elena's office door, my head spinning. The hallway is empty—I made sure of that, waiting until most of the team had cleared out after practice. My knuckles hover over the wood for a second before I force myself to knock. Three quick taps.

"Come in." Her voice is muffled through the door.

I push the door open and slip inside, closing it quietly behind me. Elena sits behind her desk, hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her eyes tell me everything—they’re red rimmed and I’m certain she’s been crying at some point today.

"Hey," I say, suddenly unsure where to begin.

"I assume you've seen it." She doesn't look up from the papers on her desk, her pen moving in tight, controlled strokes.

"Yeah. McCoy showed me this morning." I take a step closer, stopping when she finally meets my gaze. "Have you?"

"My father texted me this morning with the link." Her voice is clipped. "He recognized me immediately."

Shit. That's worse than I thought. "From that garbage photo? How?"

"My necklace." Her hand rises instinctively to her throat, but the silver cross that usually rests there is gone. "My mother's cross. I always wear it."

I sink into the chair across from her desk, leaning forward.

"I'm sorry, Elena." The words feel inadequate. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

"Neither did I." She sets down her pen and finally gives me her full attention. "But it has happened, and now we need to contain it."

"The guys were asking me who was in the picture. I didn't tell them anything."

"Good." She nods curtly. "The fewer people who know, the better chance this has of blowing over."

"Do you really think that's possible?" I search her face. "Your dad already knows. If he figured it out from a necklace, others might too."

"Not necessarily," she says. "The photo is dark and grainy. My face isn't clearly visible. Most people won't make the connection unless someone points it out."

She sounds like she's trying to convince herself as much as me. I want to reach across the desk and take her hand, but there's an invisible wall between us now, more solid than ever before.

"What did your dad say?" I ask.

She closes her eyes briefly, a flash of pain crossing her features. "What you'd expect. That I've jeopardized my career. That I've crossed ethical lines. That you're..." She hesitates.

"That I'm what?" I press.

"That you're a playboy. That when this blows over, you'll move on to the next team, the next woman, and I'll be left with a ruined reputation." She delivers the words in a flat tone.

The accusation stings, but I can't exactly blame her father. My history doesn't exactly paint me as reliable boyfriend material.

"That's not true," I say quietly. "You know that's not true, right?"

Elena looks away, her composure slipping for just a second. "What I know is that I'm in danger of losing everything I've built for myself."

The guilt hits hard. I'm the one who pursued her, who kept pushing even when she tried to stay professional. I'm the reason she's in this mess.

"Let me take the fall," I say suddenly. “Please…”

Her head snaps up. "What?"

"I'll tell everyone it was one-sided. That I pursued you aggressively but you shut me down from the start. That we're just colleagues, nothing more. It'll fit with my reputation anyway—everyone expects me to be an asshole who doesn't respect the rules."

"That's ridiculous," she says, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—hope, maybe, or surprise at my offer.

"Is it? I've got nothing to lose, Doc. Another mark on my record isn't going to make or break me. But your career?—"

"I'm not letting you take the blame for something we both did." Her voice is firm. "Besides, if we deny it now and more evidence surfaces later, it would only make things worse."

"What evidence?" I lean forward. "There's just that one photo, right?"

She hesitates. "As far as I know. But we weren't exactly careful. That night in my car? We were in the facility parking lot, Nate. Anyone could have seen us."

The memory of that night—her skin under my hands, her breath against my neck—sends heat through my body even now, in the middle of this crisis. I force it down.

"So what's your plan then?" I ask.

"We hope it blows over.” She takes a deep breath. "And we stop... whatever this is between us. Completely."

The words hang in the air, sharp and final. I should have expected them—it's the only logical solution—but they cut deeper than I anticipated.

"Is that what you want?" I can't help asking.

Something flashes in her eyes—regret, longing, I can't tell which. "What I want doesn't matter. This is what has to happen."

"Elena—"