Page 23

Elena

I look down the hallway before walking to my father's office, checking for lingering staff or players. A week has passed since that grainy photo hit the internet, and I’m still worried every day that it’s going to be revealed that I was the woman in the photo with Nate.

The training facility administrator glances up as I pass her desk. I feel like she looks at me knowingly. Like she suspects it was me. Or heard something from someone who thinks they know.

"He's waiting for you," she says, her voice carefully neutral.

I nod and continue down the hall, counting my steps to try to maintain composure.

This past week has been excruciating. I've immersed myself in paperwork, hiding in my office whenever possible. Dr. Mendez has taken over Nate's sessions—a change explained away with vague references to "trying a fresh approach."

I've avoided team practices, meal times–anywhere Nate might be. When unavoidable encounters occur, we perform an elaborate dance of not looking at each other.

I knock on Dad's door.

"Come in," he calls.

I push the door open and step inside, closing it behind me. Dad sits behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviews what looks like game statistics. He glances up, removing his glasses.

"Elena," he says. "Sit down."

I take the chair across from him, back straight, hands folded in my lap. I feel like I'm interviewing for the job I already have—and might be about to lose.

"How are you holding up?" he asks.

The question catches me off guard. I expected immediate business, not concern.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Managing."

"You don't look fine." He leans forward, studying my face. "You look exhausted."

I think about the concealer I carefully applied this morning to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Sleep has become a real struggle, replaced by endless loops of worst-case scenarios playing in my mind.

"I'm a little tired," I say, another lie. "Have you heard anything else about the photo?"

Dad sighs, leaning back in his chair. "The press still hasn't identified you. There's speculation, of course, but nothing concrete."

"And the players?"

"They're focused on our next game. Barnesy has kept his mouth shut, at least." He says Nate's name with the same distaste he's always had, but now there's something else there too.

I nod, feeling relieved that no one has named me.

"Elena..." Dad removes his glasses again, setting them on the desk. "I'm concerned about you. This situation—it's clearly taking a toll."

"I'm handling it, Dad."

"No, you're not." His voice is gentle but firm. "You're avoiding team meetings. Canceling sessions. You look like you're waiting for a bomb to drop."

"What do you expect?" The words come out sharper than intended. "I made a mistake. A huge one. I'm trying to fix it by keeping my distance from... from the situation."

Dad is quiet for a moment, considering his next words. "I think you need some time away."

My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you should take a week off. Get some perspective. Let things cool down here."

"You're suspending me?" My voice rises slightly, panic fluttering in my chest.

"No, I'm not suspending you." He looks frustrated now. "I'm suggesting you take some time for yourself. This isn't a punishment, Elena. It's concern."

"It feels like a punishment." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Or the first step to firing me."

"I'm not firing you." Dad stands, moving around the desk to sit in the chair beside me. "You're my daughter, and you're damn good at your job. One mistake doesn't erase that."

"A pretty significant ethical breach isn't just 'one mistake,'" I say, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "You were right about everything you said before. I compromised my ethics. I put my career at risk. I'm probably going to lose my license if this gets out."

Dad reaches out, his hand covering mine. "It's not going to get out. And even if it did, we'd deal with it."

"How?" I pull my hand away. "You can't fix this for me, Dad. You even said so yourself."

"No, I can't," he agrees. "But I can give you space to fix it yourself. Take the week, Elena. Clear your head."

I want to argue more, but exhaustion washes over me. Maybe he's right. Maybe I do need distance from this place, from the constant fear of running into Nate, from the sidelong glances.

"Fine," I say finally. "One week."

Dad nods, relief evident in his expression. "I'll have Dr. Mendez cover anything that might come up. Nothing pressing is scheduled anyway."

I stand, suddenly eager to be out of this office, away from his concern that feels too close to pity. "Is that all?"

He stands too, studying my face. "Elena, I know this is hard. But it’ll pass. These things always do."

"Do they?" I ask. "Or do they just become the thing everyone remembers about you when you’re gone?”

"That's not going to happen." His confidence would be comforting if it didn't feel so misplaced.

"I'll see you in a week," I say instead of arguing further.

As I walk to the door and reach for the handle, Dad says, "Elena?"

I stop and turn slightly, not quite looking at him.

"I'm not disappointed in you," he says. "I'm worried for you. There's a difference."

The distinction feels meaningless in this moment. I nod once and slip out the door.

I collect my things from my office and as I leave the facility early, I catch a glimpse of the team heading to practice. I duck my head, but not before seeing Nate among them, his tall frame unmistakable. He doesn't see me, or if he does, he doesn’t try to get my attention.

When I arrive home, I immediately slump onto my new couch and take a look around. My new apartment feels as unsettled as I do, boxes stacked in corners and every surface covered with things I haven’t yet found a home for.

I kick off my shoes and pad across the hardwood floor to the kitchen, where I pour myself a big glass of water. The silence presses in from all sides—no roommates, no hotel staff moving in the hallway, just me and the occasional creak of the building.

I've only been in this place for three days, barely enough time to assemble my bed and unpack the essentials. The timing couldn't be worse—moving while in the middle of a crisis—but I’m happy to finally be out of the Palmer House. Too many memories there from that one fateful night.

At least my new couch is comfortable. Sitting back down, I sink into its soft gray cushions and pull my legs up, and take another sip of water.

My phone sits on the coffee table. I should call Reese, let her know about my forced "vacation," but I don't have the energy to rehash today's meeting with my dad right now.

The phone lights up. A text notification.

My pulse quickens when I see Nate's name. I haven't heard from him directly since that day in my office when we agreed to end things. Or rather, when I told him we had to end things, and he reluctantly accepted it.

I reach for the phone, hesitate, then pick it up.

"Thinking about you. I hope you're doing okay."

Eight simple words. Nothing inappropriate, nothing that crosses the line. Yet they crack something open inside me, a longing so intense it's physical.

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, trying to decide whether to answer. What would I even say? "I'm fine, just been put on leave because I’m falling apart"? Or maybe "I miss you so much it hurts"? Both are true.

I set the phone down without responding. It's better this way. Cleaner. If I start talking to him again, even over text, I'll want more. And more is exactly what I can't have.

But his message sends me tumbling backward in time, to the night everything started. The night at the hotel bar when he was just a handsome stranger with captivating blue eyes and that sexy smile.

I was lonely, and freaked out about starting my new job the next day. The quiet hotel bar seemed like a safe place to nurse a glass of wine.

But then he showed up and everything changed. We had connection right from the start and our banter had me warming up to him faster than I could’ve ever imagined.

When I decided to ask him up to my room, there was no hesitation. I knew what I wanted and wasn’t shy about it.

The things he did to me that night will forever be burned into my mind. He touched me and talked to me like no lover ever had. And now I’m worried I’ll never find that again. What if this was my one shot for a kind of relationship I never even knew existed?

The memory fades, leaving me staring at my phone in my silent new apartment. I believed there was something special happening between us that night, something real beneath all the chemistry and attraction.

Maybe there was. Maybe there still is. But reality has reasserted itself with brutal efficiency. He’s my client—former client now, I suppose. My career feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

I pick up the phone again, reading his text one more time. "Thinking about you. I hope you're doing okay."

My fingers hover over the keyboard. A dozen responses form and dissolve in my mind.

I miss you too.

I'm not okay, not even close.

This is killing me.

I think about you all the time.

In the end, I set the phone down without responding. What's the point? There's no path forward for us, no happy ending. All texting would do is prolong the pain, keep hope alive when there’s no point.

An hour later, I stumble through my front door, sweat-soaked and breathless. Six miles. I've never pushed myself that far before, but today I needed the mindless rhythm of feet hitting pavement until my thoughts quieted to nothing but the next breath, the next step.

I glance at myself in the entryway mirror. My hair is a disaster of dark strands escaped from my ponytail, my face flushed an unattractive shade of red. I peel off my running shoes and socks, leaving them on the floor.

My legs are shaky as I make my way to the kitchen and gulp water straight from the tap, too impatient for a glass.