Page 34

Nate

I check my phone for a text from Elena for the twentieth time in the past hour.

Five texts sent, zero received. This isn't like her at all.

Even on her busiest days with the Steel, she finds thirty seconds to send something—an emoji, a quick 'swamped, talk later'—something to let me know that she’s okay.

The silence feels more uncomfortable with every passing minute.

I look out over the panoramic view of Chicago that normally calms me but my anxiety keeps growing. Something's wrong. It has to be.

I woke up feeling great this morning after we demolished the Senators last night. I had a goal and three assists. Coach even gave me a curt nod in the locker room afterward—the closest thing to approval I've gotten from him since Elena and I started seeing each other again.

Now it's after five, and the worry has morphed into something darker.

I scroll through our recent text history, looking for clues.

Had I said something inappropriate? Done something to piss her off?

Our last conversation had been perfectly normal—planning to meet up tonight, her telling me about a breakthrough with one of the Steel's pitchers.

My mind cycles through worst-case scenarios. Car accident. Family emergency. Her father somehow forcing her to cut contact with me. Fuck… I hate not knowing what’s going on.

I grab my keys, thinking seriously about driving to her place, when my phone finally vibrates. Elena's name appears on the screen, and relief floods through me.

Then I open the message.

It's not text. It's an image. The thumbnail loads, and I recognize myself immediately—standing in a hotel lobby in a suit. With Melissa's hand on my arm, her face tilted up toward mine, that practiced smile she always wore for cameras.

My stomach drops. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I know exactly when and where this was taken—The Drake, during a charity event for youth hockey programs. Melissa was my date, one of a string of meaningless hookups that filled the emptiness between games and cities.

But the date stamp on the article makes it look like yesterday.

"Barnes spotted at The Drake with mystery blonde."

No wonder Elena's been silent all day. She thinks I'm cheating on her. The thought makes me physically ill.

I call her immediately. Straight to voicemail.

"Elena, call me back. That photo is ancient—at least a year old. Please call me." My voice sounds desperate even to my own ears.

I hang up and type out a text, my fingers moving frantically across the screen.

"That was taken at least a year ago. The press is just making shit up."

I hit send and stare at the message, watching those three dots appear and disappear as she starts to type something, then stops. Then nothing.

I call again. Voicemail again.

I slam my phone down on the counter, hard enough that I'm surprised the screen doesn't crack. This is exactly what I was afraid of—my past coming back to haunt us, my reputation undermining everything we're trying to build.

How do I prove to her that the photo's old? I try to remember exactly when it was taken. Last September? October? Long before I was traded back to the Blades, that's for sure.

I grab my laptop and start searching for the original photo. If I can find it with the correct date, I can show her this is bullshit. But the only versions I find are recent reposts—all with yesterday's date, all with that same stupid caption about me being spotted with a "mystery blonde."

My phone stays silent. I try Elena again—text, then call. Nothing.

My hands are shaking now. A well-known sensation spreads through me—that same uncomfortable warmth I've felt so many times before. Not anger this time, but something worse. Fear. And beneath it, the whisper of old insecurities.

This is why people leave. This is why you'll always end up alone.

I push the thoughts away. No. I'm not that guy anymore. Elena and I have something real. She'll listen. She has to.

I grab my keys and wallet. If she won't answer my calls or texts, I'll go find her. Make her listen. Make her understand that this absolutely did not happen yesterday.

As I head for the door, my phone buzzes again. I snatch it up.

But it's not Elena. It's my agent.

"Saw The Drake photo making rounds again. Should I issue a statement clarifying the date?"

Even he knows it's old news. I text back a quick affirmative, then slide the phone into my pocket.

Elena has to believe me. She has to. Because if she doesn't—if she can't trust me through something as stupid as a recycled photo—then what chance do we have against the real challenges that will come our way?

I lock the door behind me, determination replacing the fear. I won't lose her over this. Not when we've fought so hard to find our way back to each other.

Not when I'm finally becoming someone worthy of her trust.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing outside her front door, knocking for the third time.

"Elena, please. Just let me explain." I press my forehead against the door, lowering my voice. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

Nothing.

"I'm not leaving," I say, sliding down to sit with my back against her door. "I'll stay here all night if I have to."

I pull out my phone, staring at that damned photo again.

Melissa looks exactly as I remember her—calculating, camera-ready, with that practiced smile that came off soulless.

We'd gone out maybe three times before I realized she was more interested in being seen with an NHL player than in me as a person.

Just another in a long line of shallow connections that defined my life before Elena.

Before I became someone I actually like.

A soft click from the door behind me. I scramble to my feet as it opens a few inches, chain still latched. Elena's face appears in the gap, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, her voice flat.

I resist the urge to push against the door. "Can I please come in? Just for a few minutes?"

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then she closes the door. For a moment, I think she's shutting me out again, but then I hear the chain sliding, and the door reopens fully.

She walks away without waiting for me, back straight, shoulders tense. She's wearing running clothes—black leggings and a loose tank top. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

I follow her into the living room, closing the door behind me. Her apartment is unnervingly tidy, as always, except for a throw blanket rumpled on the couch and an empty wine glass on the coffee table.

"Five minutes," she says, turning to face me. Her arms cross over her chest.

"The photo is old, Elena." I dive right in, not wanting to waste a second. "It was taken over a year ago, long before I met you."

"So you mentioned," she says, the words sharp as a blade.

"It's the truth." I take a step toward her, but she backs away slightly. "Her name is Melissa. We went out a few times—nothing serious. The picture was taken at The Drake. It was a charity thing."

"And I'm just supposed to believe that?" The bitterness in her voice cuts deep.

"Yes. I would never lie to you." I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Look, I know how it looks. But why would I text you all day, make plans for tonight, if I was with someone else yesterday?"

"I don't know, Nate. Why do guys like you do anything?" Her eyes narrow. "Maybe because you can? Because you're used to women falling over themselves for you, and you figure why limit yourself to just one?"

"Guys like me?" I repeat, the words like acid in my mouth. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means." She turns away, moving to the kitchen counter where her phone sits. "Players. Literally and figuratively."

"That's not fair." I follow her. "I've been nothing but honest with you from the beginning. I've been seeing a therapist. I've been working on my shit. I haven't so much as looked at another woman since you and I?—"

"Yet there you are." She picks up her phone, holding it up to show me the photo again. "Looking very cozy with someone who definitely isn't me."

"A year ago!" My voice rises despite my best efforts. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. Getting angry won't help. "Elena, think about it logically. Look closely at the photo—that’s not even the same haircut I have now."

She studies the photo, her expression softening slightly. Then she sets the phone down.

"My agent is already putting out a statement clarifying when it was taken," I add. "The press does this shit all the time—recycles old photos with new dates to generate clicks. It's bullshit, but it's part of my life."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" She looks up at me, eyes suddenly vulnerable. "Is it always going to be like this with the press hounding you and even making stuff up? Because I don't know if I can handle a lifetime of wondering whether the latest photo or story is real or fake."

The question hits me like a body check. A lifetime. She's thinking about a lifetime with me, even in the midst of her doubt.

"I can't promise it won't happen again," I say honestly. "People are going to write shit about me as long as I'm playing. And yeah, sometimes they'll make things up or twist the truth."

I move around the counter, slowly, giving her time to back away if she wants. She doesn't.

"But I can promise you that none of it will be true. Not when it comes to other women." I stop in front of her, close enough to touch her but not reaching for her. "I don't want anyone but you, Elena. I haven't since the night we met."

She studies my face, searching for truth or lies. "I want to believe you," she whispers.

"Then believe me." I reach for her hand, relieved when she lets me take it. "I'm not that guy anymore. The one who bounced from woman to woman, never letting anyone get close. You changed that. You changed me."

Her fingers are cold in mine, but she doesn't pull away. "I know who you were before. Everyone does. That's the problem."

"I know." I squeeze her hand gently. "And I know it's not fair to ask you to ignore all that history, to just trust me. But I'm asking anyway."

She looks down at our joined hands, then back up at me. "I need some time, Nate. To think about all this."

The words land like ice in my stomach, but I nod. "Okay. I understand."

"Do you?" Her voice is soft, almost sad. "Because this isn't just about one photo. It's about wondering if I'll ever be enough for someone like you."

"Someone like me," I repeat, the phrase cutting as deep the second time. "Elena, you're not just enough. You're everything. More than I ever thought I'd have."

She doesn't respond but gives me a sad smile.

I release her hand reluctantly. "I should go. Let you have time to think."

She nods, crossing her arms over her chest again. "Okay."

I walk to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. I want to turn around, to pull her into my arms and make her believe me through sheer force of will. But I know that's not how trust works. It has to be given freely, not taken.

"For what it's worth," I say at the door, "I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. Never even came close."

Her lips curve in the smallest of smiles, sad but real. "I'll call you tomorrow," she says.

It's not much, but it's something. A thread of hope I can cling to as I walk out her door and into the empty hallway.

I didn't do anything wrong this time. I know that. But as I drive home through Chicago's evening traffic, the knowledge is cold comfort. Because in the end, it doesn't matter if the photo was a lie. What matters is whether Elena can believe in me despite all the reasons my past gives her not to.

Whether she can trust that this time, with her, everything is different.