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"Would he though? First I compromise my ethics by sleeping with one of my clients, then I bail on him entirely? I don’t know…."

Reese refills our wine glasses, handing mine back to me. "Look at it from his perspective. If you stay, you're in an impossible situation. There's tension and awkwardness. Wouldn't it be cleaner for everyone if you made a fresh start somewhere else?"

"I need to think about it," I say, taking a long sip of wine. "It feels too big to decide right now."

My phone buzzes with a text from my dad.

"Hope you're okay."

Just three words, but they make my chest tight. He's reaching out, showing concern rather than judgment. It's subtle but meaningful—Dad's way of saying he's not angry, just worried.

I text back a quick "I am. Thanks." Then add, "How's the team doing?"

"This would be so much easier if I didn't care about anyone," I groan, flopping back against the cushions.

"But that's the whole point, isn't it?" Reese curls her legs under her. "You care about your dad. You care about Nate. You care about your career. That's why this is hard."

"It just feels like no matter what I choose, I'm letting someone down."

"Welcome to adulthood, babe." She clinks her glass against mine. "Sometimes there are no perfect choices. But we can get pretty damn close if we try."

“I’m so lucky to have you, babe. You always make me feel better.”

“Aww, I love you and I want you to be happy,” she says, squeezing my hand.

Later that night, Reese turns the Blades game on and glances over at me, trying to read my expression.

"You okay with watching this?" she asks, settling beside me on the couch. "We can find a rom-com instead if this is too weird."

"No, it's fine," I lie, reaching for a handful of popcorn Reese brought out. "I want to see how they're doing."

How he's doing, is what I really mean.

The camera pans across the ice as players warm up, taking practice shots. I scan for Nate's number 89, but don't see him among the blue jerseys.

"Maybe he's just not on screen," I mutter to myself, leaning forward.

The announcer's voice fills the cabin: "The Blades looking to bounce back after Tuesday's tough loss to Dallas. They'll have their work cut out for them tonight against the Jets, especially with Barnes out of the lineup."

My head snaps up. "What did he say?"

Reese looks equally surprised. "Barnes is out? Did they say why?"

We both listen closely as the commentators continue.

"No official word from the team on Barnes's absence tonight. Coach Martinez simply listed him as unavailable during this morning's press conference."

A sick feeling settles in my stomach.

"That's weird," Reese says. "Any idea what that means?"

I shake my head, though a terrible suspicion is forming. Had my father actually benched Nate because of me? Because of us?

The game begins, and it's immediately clear the Blades are struggling without him. Their offense seems disjointed, passes going astray, scoring opportunities squandered. By the end of the first period, they're down 2-0.

"Man, I don't follow hockey much, but even I can see they're off tonight," Reese comments.

"He's their leading scorer," I say, my thoughts racing.

The camera cuts to my father behind the bench, his face a mask of frustration as he talks intensely with his assistant coaches. I know that look—the tense jaw, the sharp gestures. He's angry, and trying not to show it.

"This is my fault," I whisper.

Reese turns to me, brow furrowed. "What? How could this possibly be your fault?"

“What if he's punishing Nate for what happened between us?"

"That's a pretty big assumption," Reese says cautiously. "There could be a dozen reasons why he's not playing tonight. Maybe he’s injured and they're just not saying."

"Then why not list him as injured? Why 'unavailable'?"

"Hey." Reese grabs my hand. "Stop catastrophizing. You don't know anything for sure. And even if your dad did bench him—which is a big if—there’s nothing you can do about it."

The second period starts, and things go from bad to worse. The Jets score two more goals, and the Blades look increasingly defeated.

I scan the benches, the spaces behind the players where sometimes injured teammates sit to support the team. No sign of Nate anywhere.

"He's not even at the game," I say quietly. "If he were injured, he'd still be there."

Reese doesn't argue this time, just squeezes my hand.

By the third period, it's a complete stomp—6-1 Jets, with the lone Blades goal coming on a fluke deflection. I can barely watch anymore. I know we should turn the game off, but I can’t seem to look away.

"If Nate was playing, this wouldn't be happening," I say, knowing I sound irrational but unable to stop myself. What is wrong with me? I’m a trained psychologist but my brain is on a loop right now that I can’t stop.

"And now Nate's not playing in a crucial game, with no explanation. The team is falling apart without him. My dad's reputation as a coach takes a hit with each loss." My voice breaks. "All because I couldn't keep my hands off him."

"Elena, stop. You're spiraling. This is one game. One night that Nate's not playing. It could be anything—a minor injury they're not disclosing, a disciplinary issue totally unrelated to you, or something else that I can’t think of right now."

I want to believe her. I desperately want to believe this has nothing to do with me, with us.

"Text him," Reese suggests suddenly.

"What?"

"Text Nate. Ask him why he's not playing. Get the facts instead of torturing yourself with theories."

I stare at her, then at my phone sitting on the coffee table. It would be so easy to pick it up, to dial his number, to hear his voice. To know the truth.

But what if my worst fears are confirmed? What if my father really has sidelined him because of what happened?

The final buzzer sounds on the TV. Jets 7, Blades 1. The camera lingers on my father's face as he stalks toward the locker room.

"I can't text him," I say finally. "We agreed to end things. I told him I couldn't risk my career. I need to leave it at that."

Reese sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

I lean into her, suddenly exhausted. "What if the Steel job is the answer? I could leave, remove myself from the equation. Dad would have no reason to punish Nate anymore. The team could get back on track."

"Is that why you'd take it?" Reese's voice is gentle but probing.

"I don't know." I close my eyes. "Maybe that's part of it. But mostly because I don't see how I can stay with the Blades now. Too much damage has been done."

On the screen, highlights from the game play on a loop—every goal against the Blades, every missed opportunity, every frustrated expression.

Maybe a fresh start really is what everyone needs. Maybe by walking away, I can start all over again.