Page 33

Elena

I spot Dad through the window of Giordano's, already seated at a booth near the front.

My stomach twists with nerves, a feeling I've grown accustomed to lately whenever I think about discussing Nate with him.

I straighten my posture and push through the door, reminding myself that I'm a grown woman who doesn't need her father's permission to date anyone—even if that anyone happens to be a hockey player Dad once called "the team's biggest liability. "

The restaurant buzzes with energy—families sharing massive deep-dish pies, couples leaning close across tables, waiters balancing trays of beer. Dad looks up from his menu and waves me over.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, sliding into the booth. "Our meeting ran long."

"No problem. I just got here myself." He folds his menu and sets it aside. "How's the new job treating you?"

"It's going well. Really well, actually." I pick up a menu though I already know what I want. "The team has a completely different vibe from the Blades."

"How so?"

"Less testosterone, for one thing." I smile and roll my eyes. "Baseball players are intense in their own way, but it's different from hockey. Less aggression."

Dad nods, genuinely interested. "Is management giving you the support you need?"

"Absolutely. They've been incredibly receptive to my ideas for expanding the mental health program. And they're giving me a lot of autonomy."

A waiter appears, and we order—a half-mushroom, half-pepperoni deep dish and two beers. When he leaves, Dad leans forward, elbows on the table.

"You look good, Elena. Happier."

"I feel happier," I admit. "The Steel is a good fit for me. And I like being able to establish myself separately from..." I trail off, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

"From me," he finishes, no offense in his voice. "I get it. And I'm glad. You deserve your own spotlight."

The beer arrives, and I take a long sip, trying to calm my jittery nerves. In the corner of the restaurant, a birthday celebration erupts with off-key singing. Dad watches the scene with amusement.

"Remember when you turned twelve and insisted on having your birthday at that fancy French restaurant?" he asks. "You ordered escargot and pretended to love it even though I could tell you were horrified."

I laugh at the memory. "I was trying so hard to be grown-up."

"You've always been that way. Determined to tackle things head-on, even when they scared you."

The conversation flows easily between us. Dad tells me about recent trades, I share stories about quirky baseball superstitions I've encountered. By the time our pizza arrives, mouthwatering and hot, the knot in my stomach has loosened slightly.

We dig in, the first few bites eaten in silence. I'm halfway through my slice when Dad sets his fork down and takes a drink of beer.

"So, Barnes…" He says the name and my heart about jumps out of my chest. "He’s different these days."

I set my own fork down. I can’t eat and have this conversation at the same time. "Different how?"

Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin. "More focused. Less volatile. He's been mentoring some of the younger players, if you can believe it." He pauses. "I'm still pissed off about what happened with the two of you, but I can't deny he's trying."

This is such a surprise. I'd expected judgment or disappointment. Not this somewhat grudging acknowledgment.

"He is trying," I say softly. "He's been seeing a therapist. Working through some stuff from his past."

Dad's eyebrows lift slightly. "Voluntarily?"

"Yes. It was his idea."

A long moment passes between us. I gather my courage, knowing it's time for complete honesty.

"Dad, there's something I need to tell you. About Nate and me."

He sits back, arms crossing over his chest. "Go ahead."

"The night we met—that first time, at the hotel bar? I was the one who pursued him." The words tumble out in a rush. "He didn't know who I was, and I didn't know he was a Blades player. But I was the one who suggested going to my room."

Dad frowns slightly, but doesn't interrupt.

"And after, when I found out who he was, I should have shut it down completely. That's on me. I knew better." I take a breath. "But what happened between us... it wasn't just a fling or a physical thing. There was—is—something real there."

"Elena—"

"Please, let me finish." My voice is steady now. "I'm not asking for your permission, Dad. I'm twenty-six, not fifteen. I'm just trying to be honest with you. Nate and I are together again. We're taking it slowly this time. But I need you to know that he's important to me."

"Is this why you took the Steel job? So you could be with him?"

"No. Yes. Partly." I struggle to articulate the complex truth. "I took it because I needed my own identity, like we talked about before. But also because it removes the professional conflict. It gives us a chance to see if what we have is real, without all the complications."

"And you believe he's changed? That he won't hurt you?"

The question is fair. I've asked myself the same thing countless times.

"I believe he's trying," I say carefully. "I believe we both are. I can't promise it will work out, but I need to find out."

Dad is quiet for a long moment, fiddling with his napkin. Finally, he looks up.

"You know, your mother would have liked him."

The statement blindsides me. "What?"

"She always had a soft spot for the complicated ones. Said they were the most interesting." A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "She'd have seen through his bullshit right away, just like you do."

My eyes burn with unexpected tears.

"I just want you to be happy, Elena," he continues. "And safe. Barnes has a history?—"

"I know his history," I interrupt. "I also know he's not defined by it."

Dad nods slowly. "Fair enough." He picks up his fork again, cutting into his abandoned slice of pizza. "Just promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"If he reverts to his old ways, if he hurts you—you walk away. No second chances."

I think about the Nate I've come to know—the man who holds me while I sleep, who's confronting his demons in therapy, who kisses me like I'm precious and laughs with me so hard we almost cry sometimes.

"I promise," I say. "But he's not going to hurt me."

"I hope you're right." Dad lifts his beer in a small toast. "To new beginnings, then."

I clink my glass against his, while I feel the relief rush through me. "To new beginnings."

As we finish our meal, we talk about mundane stuff—the upcoming baseball season, the Blades current ranking, my recent seven mile run that almost killed me. But something has shifted between us, a new understanding taking root.

When we part outside the restaurant, Dad hugs me tightly. "Tell Nate I'm watching him." His eyes narrow in possibly mock threat, but maybe not. “If he hurts you I’m coming after his ass.”

I laugh. "I'll be sure to pass that along."

The Steel's facility smells of freshly cut grass and leather, a world away from the ice and sweat of the hockey arena.

I settle at my desk with an oat milk latte, thinking about how last night's dinner with Dad went better than I could have hoped.

For the first time in months, all the pieces of my life seem to be falling into place.

I spend the morning reviewing player assessments, making notes on areas of concern and potential intervention strategies.

The Steel's roster includes several promising rookies struggling with the transition to the majors, and two veterans coming back from career-threatening injuries.

Complex cases that will challenge me professionally—exactly what I wanted.

By noon, my stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t eat breakfast. I stretch, feeling a satisfying pop in my spine, and decide to take a proper lunch break. The cafeteria here is surprisingly good, with healthier options than the fried-everything menu at the Blades facility.

I grab a salad and find a quiet corner table, pulling out my phone to catch up on messages.

There's one from Reese asking about weekend plans, another from a friend from San Francisco who I haven’t talked to in a long time.

And a simple "Miss you already" from Nate that somehow makes me feel seventeen again.

I open Instagram, scrolling mindlessly while I eat. A sports blog I follow has posted a new gallery of images. I tap through them—mostly standard shots of players at charity events or training.

Then I see it.

The fork freezes halfway to my mouth, lettuce tumbling back to the plate.

Nate stands in what looks like a hotel lobby, head bent toward a woman with long blonde hair. She's stunning—model-thin with perfect skin and a designer dress that hugs every curve. Her hand rests on Nate's forearm, face tilted up toward his. They look... like they know each other very well.

The caption reads: "Barnes spotted at the Langham with mystery blonde."

I set my fork down with a clatter that draws glances from nearby tables. My fingers tremble as I zoom in on the photo, studying every detail like it's evidence in a crime.

The woman's fingers curl possessively around Nate's arm. Her lipstick is flawless, the perfect shade of red for her complexion. Nate wears a dark suit, tailored perfectly to his muscular frame. He's smiling down at her, that dimple I love on full display.

They look like they belong together. Beautiful people in a beautiful space.

The timestamp says the photo was taken yesterday evening—around the same time I was having pizza with my dad, feeling so certain about Nate and me. About the progress we'd made. About us taking things "slowly" and "doing it right."

What a joke.

I scroll through the comments, each one a fresh stab.

"Barnesy’s back at it."

"Blonde today, brunette tomorrow. Classic Barnes."

"She's way hotter than his usual hookups."

My face burns with a toxic cocktail of shame and anger. How could I have been so stupid? So naive? This is Nate Barnes we're talking about—the man whose reputation for bed-hopping is almost as legendary as his scoring record.

I'd believed him when he said he wanted to change. When he said I was different. When he said we were taking things slowly because our relationship mattered to him.

The worst part? Even now, staring at photographic evidence of his deception, some part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it's not what it looks like. Maybe there's an explanation.

God, I'm pathetic.

I click on the profile that posted the image, checking for more photos, but there's nothing else. Just this single, damning snapshot of Nate with another woman while I had sat across from my father, defending him.

My phone buzzes with a text. From Nate.

"How's your day going? Thinking about you."

A sharp laugh escapes me. Thinking about me? While he's what—scheduling his blonde for the evening and me for the morning? Working his way through Chicago's eligible women with the efficiency that makes him such a deadly player on the ice?

I don't respond. What would I even say? "Saw your photo with the blonde. Care to explain?" Too desperate. Too needy. I won't give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I shove my phone in my pocket and dump my half-eaten salad in the trash. The rest of my lunch break is spent sitting in the small courtyard outside the facility, breathing in the chilly air and trying to quiet the storm in my head.

This is exactly what Dad warned me about. What everyone would have said if they'd known Nate and I were together. He doesn't commit. He doesn't change. He takes what he wants and moves on.

I'd been so sure this time was different. That we were different.

By the time I return to my office, I've thought through a dozen scenarios. Maybe the woman is a friend? A cousin? A teammate's girlfriend who needed an escort to something?

Each explanation sounds more desperate than the last.

The rational part of my brain—the part that earned a masters in psychology—tries to assert itself. Don't jump to conclusions. Get the facts before reacting. Communication is key in any relationship.

But the wounded, jealous part of me drowns it out. The part that remembers every story I’ve heard or read about Nate's exploits with women. The part that never quite believed someone like him could be satisfied with someone like me.

A knock on my door jolts me from my spiral. One of the pitchers stands in the doorway, right on time for his scheduled session.

"Hey, Elena. You okay? You look a little pale."

I force a smile. "I'm fine, Jimmy. Come in."

For the next hour, I focus entirely on his anxiety about an upcoming start. I nod along, ask all the right questions, and suggest the visualization techniques that might help. I’m the perfect sports psychologist, while inside, a storm rages.

After he leaves, I check my phone again and there’s another text from Nate.

"Dinner tonight? My place or yours?"

The casual normalcy of his messages makes me want to scream. How can he act so normal when there's another woman in the picture? Is this just how he operates—multiple women, and nobody’s the wiser?

I stare at the texts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to confront him, demand explanations. Part of me wants to pretend I never saw the photo, to preserve the bubble of happiness I've been living in.

But I can't unsee it. Can't unfeel this cold knot of doubt settling in my stomach.

"Busy tonight," I type, then delete.

"Not feeling well," I try again. Not really a lie but definitely cowardly.

"Saw your photo with the blonde. Who is she?" Too direct, too accusatory.

In the end, I put the phone down without responding. I need time to think. To decide if this relationship is worth fighting for, or if I've been fooling myself all along.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of sessions and paperwork. By the time I leave the facility, my phone shows five unanswered texts from Nate, each one more concerned than the last.

The final one reads: "Elena, is everything okay? I'm getting worried."

I slide into my car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Everything is not okay. Not even close.

The image of Nate and the blonde woman plays on repeat in my mind, a taunting reminder that some things—some people—don't change. Not really. Not when it counts.

I start the car, vision blurring with unshed tears. The question that haunts me isn't who she is or what they were doing.

It's why I ever believed I could be enough for Nate Barnes in the first place.