Page 28

Elena

M y feet pound the path in perfect rhythm, the steady beat drowning out the chaos in my head. This is my escape—one foot in front of the other, breath measured, mind emptying with each exhale. The crisp autumn air burns my lungs in the best possible way.

The lake stretches out beside the path, water glimmering under the lowering sun.

I've been back from Lake Geneva for a couple of days, and already the peace I found there has evaporated into thin air.

Dad keeps watching me with those worried eyes.

And the walls of the training facility seem to close in a little more each day.

And then there's the job offer. The Chicago Steel. A clean slate. No baggage, no history, no constant fear of being recognized as "that woman" from the grainy photo with Nate Barnes.

Nate.

His name still causes a physical reaction—a tightness in my chest, an unwanted flushing up my neck.

I push harder, increasing my pace. I thought about popping my earbuds in before I left my apartment, but running without music means there's nothing to distract me from my thoughts. That's the point after all. Face them head-on. Process them. Let them flow through me rather than consuming me.

The Chicago Steel's offer sits in my inbox, the formal email having arrived yesterday. Excellent benefits. Competitive salary. A respected organization with players who need exactly the kind of support I've trained to provide.

I interviewed via zoom with them yesterday and it went really well.

Dr. Shanta called again to talk to me about the opportunity.

"They were impressed by your CV," she'd said. "Particularly your research on performance anxiety in elite athletes."

It's a good offer. A smart move. The sensible choice.

So why does it feel like running away?

I round a curve in the path, and that's when I see him.

Sitting on a bench facing the lake, hood pulled up over his dark hair, a notebook open on his lap. His profile is unmistakable—the strong jaw, the straight nose, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on whatever he's writing.

Nate.

My step falters. I should turn around. Take another path. Avoid the complication sitting twenty yards ahead of me.

Instead, I slow to a walk, my breathing still rapid from exertion—or perhaps from the sight of him.

He hasn't seen me yet. I could still slip away, pretend this moment never happened. But I'm tired of running from him, from us, from the mess we've made.

As if sensing my presence, he looks up. Our eyes lock across the distance. Something flashes across his face—surprise, then a smile revealing that damn dimple that makes my stomach flip.

He closes his notebook, tucking his pen into its spiral binding. He waits. Not approaching, not retreating. Leaving the choice to me.

I walk toward him. His eyes never leave mine, blue and intense even in the fading light. He's wearing a navy hoodie with the hood pulled up and jeans. Nothing that screams 'pro athlete.' Just a man sitting in a park as evening approaches.

"Hi," I say when I reach him, the word inadequate for everything swirling between us.

"Hey, Doc," he says. "I didn't expect to see you here."

The nickname pulls at my heartstrings.

"I run here sometimes." I gesture vaguely at the path. "What are you doing?"

He lifts the notebook slightly. "Just writing. Thinking."

An awkward silence stretches between us.

"Do you want to sit?" he asks finally, scooting over slightly to make room. "Unless you need to keep going."

I should say no. Should continue my run, maintain the expectations I fought so hard to establish. But the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up makes him look almost anonymous, and the park is emptying as dinner time approaches. No one would recognize us. And I really want to talk to him.

"Sure," I say, lowering myself onto the bench beside him, leaving careful inches between us. "Just for a minute."

Sitting next to him, I can smell the scent of his shampoo and it makes me think about being so close to him that I could bury my nose into his hair.

"How are you?" he asks, and the simple question threatens to undo me.

"I'm..." I search for a word that encompasses everything I've felt these past weeks. "Managing. You?"

"Better." He turns slightly to face me, one leg bent on the bench between us. “I had the flu last week and felt like shit for days. Even missed the game Saturday.”

Ohhh. So that’s why he wasn’t playing. All of that stuff I made up in my mind—all for nothing.

“I’m happy to hear you’re feeling better.”

"Yea, thanks,” he says before changing the subject. “So I wanted to apologize again, Elena. For everything. For putting you in an impossible position, for not respecting your needs, for the photo, for all of it."

His directness catches me off guard. There's no charm offensive, no deflection. Just raw honesty.

"It wasn't just you," I say, picking at a loose thread on my running tights. "I made my own choices."

"Still." He shakes his head. "I should have been more careful. Should have thought about what was at stake for you professionally."

"Have you heard anything more about the photo?" I ask, glancing around instinctively though the nearest people are a couple walking their dog at least fifty yards away.

He gives me a small smile. "The good news is, I think the whole thing's dying down. No one's identified you from what I can tell, and the press has moved on to fresher scandals. Some rookie on the Bruins got caught cheating with his teammate's fiancée, so..." He shrugs. "We're old news."

Relief washes through me. "That's... that's good. Really good."

"Yeah." He nods. "I've been monitoring it pretty closely. Checking to see if your name has been brought up and it hasn’t."

"Thank you," I say. "I appreciate that."

Another silence falls, but less strained than before. A jogger passes, barely glancing at us.

"So," I gesture at his notebook. "What are you writing?"

He looks down at it, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "It's, uh... it's kind of a journal. Something my therapist suggested."

"Your therapist?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

"Yeah." He meets my eyes steadily. "I started seeing someone. Dr. Ballard. He's not connected to the team at all. This is just for me."

"That's... wow, Nate. That's really great." And it is. A curl of something warm unfurls inside me—pride, maybe, or hope.

"I just started but the first session was helpful," he continues. "We're working through some family stuff. About why I push people away." He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. "About why I pick fights."

The openness in his expression stuns me. This isn't the Nate Barnes who swaggered into my office that first day. This is someone new—or perhaps someone who was always there, beneath the carefully constructed armor.

"That's really brave," I say softly. "Therapy isn't easy."

"No shit." He rubs his hands together. "It's like skating uphill. But I needed to do something. I was tired of being the problem."

His eyes find mine on those last words, and the intensity in them steals my breath.

"I've been journaling," he continues, tapping the notebook. "And meditating. Badly, but I'm trying. And I'm working with Tucker on his shooting technique. Trying to be more of a team leader, you know? Never thought I’d enjoy it, but I do."

I listen, amazed at the changes he's describing. "That all sounds really positive, Nate."

"It's a start." He shrugs, but I can tell he's proud of the steps he's taking. "So what about you? How's everything going?"

I hesitate, unsure how much to share. But his honesty deserves reciprocation.

"Actually, I'm considering a job offer," I say. "With the Chicago Steel."

His eyebrows lift, but his expression remains open. "Yeah? Tell me about it."

So I do. I tell him about Dr. Shanta's call, about the position, about how it would solve some issues for me but also create new questions. I tell him more than I meant to, the words spilling out in a rush of uncertainty and conflicted feelings.

"It sounds like a great opportunity," he says when I finish. "The Steel's got a solid organization. Progressive management. They'd be lucky to have you."

"You think I should take it?" I ask, studying his face.

"I think you should do what's best for you, Elena." His voice is gentle but firm. "If that's the Steel, then yes. If that’s what's best for you, you should go after it."

"Thank you," I whisper, unexpected tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "That means a lot."

He nods. "For what it's worth, I think you'd kill it there."

The sincerity in his voice reaches something deep inside me, a place that's been aching for weeks. Without thinking, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

The kiss is brief—a whisper of contact. His lips are warm and familiar against mine, and for one breathless moment, everything else falls away.

I pull back, my face reddening. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have?—"

"Don't apologize." His voice is rough. "Not for that. Never for that."

We stare at each other, the air between us charged with everything we've been to each other, everything we could be.

"I should finish my run," I say finally, standing on unsteady legs.

He nods, making no move to stop me. "It was good to see you, Elena."

"You too, Nate." I take a step back, already missing him. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," he echoes, his eyes following me as I turn and begin jogging back to the path.

I don't look back, though every cell in my body wants to. Instead, I focus on finding my rhythm again, on the steady in-out of my breath.

But my mind is nowhere near as disciplined. It races with thoughts of Nate—the changes in him, the vulnerability in his eyes, the feel of his lips against mine.

Could it work? If I took the Steel job, if we weren't professionally connected anymore, could we try again? Start fresh, without the complications and conflicts that kept us from ever trying to be a couple?

Or would it be the same problems in a different package? The press would still be interested in us. People would still talk. My reputation would still be at risk.

But maybe that risk would be worth it. Maybe he would be worth it.

I push myself harder, as if I could outrun my own thoughts. But they keep pace effortlessly.

What would people think? Dad would be furious at first, but would he eventually understand? Would my colleagues respect me if they knew I'd crossed that line?

Could I trust Nate to be the man I glimpsed today—open, honest, working on himself? Or would the old patterns reassert themselves when things got difficult?

The questions chase me all the way home, where I stand under a hot shower, trying to calm my mind.

Later, wrapped in my bathrobe, hair still damp from the shower, I sit on my bed with my phone in hand. I'm staring at the Steel's offer email, reading it for the tenth time, when a text comes through.

Nate's name appears on my screen, and my body tenses.

"One more chance. You set the rules."

Oh my god. How do I respond? Yes? No? Maybe? I want to believe in second chances, in growth, in the possibility that maybe we actually belong together.

But I'm also afraid. Afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of hurting him. Afraid of risking everything for something that might not last.

I set the phone down without responding, but I can't stop the small smile that curves my lips, or the warmth that spreads through me.

One more chance.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I pick up the phone again and text Nate back: “Tempting… Can you actually follow the rules though?”