Page 35

Elena

R eese waves at me from our usual corner booth at Pequod's.

Her curls are piled on top of her head in that effortlessly chic way I've never been able to master, and her smile is wide but her eyes are searching.

She knows something's up. I slide into the booth, dropping my purse beside me, and she doesn't even pretend to make small talk before leaning forward.

"Spill it," she demands. "Your text was super cryptic."

"Let’s order first. I’m starving," I pick up the menu and take a quick look even though I almost always order the same thing here.

"Fine." She sits back, drumming her hot pink nails on the table. "Let’s definitely get the garlic knots."

The server appears, and we place our usual order—a medium pizza, half mushroom for me, half pepperoni for her, and a basket of garlic knots to share. After he walks away, Reese raises an eyebrow.

"Alright, girl. Tell me what’s up."

I take a deep breath. "So there was this photo that showed up in my feed yesterday of Nate and this blonde."

Her eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought he was cheating on me." I fiddle with a ring on my finger. "I completely ghosted him all day yesterday. I was so pissed off and..."

"And?"

"Scared." I look up at her. "Scared that everyone was right about him all along."

Reese reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "What happened?"

"He showed up at my apartment last night.

Said the photo was old—at least a year old.

That the press recycled it with a new date to generate clicks.

" I shake my head. "He seemed so sincere, Reese.

And it makes sense—why would he be texting me all day, making plans for the evening, if he had been with someone else the night before? "

"So you believe him?"

I bite my lip. "I want to. But there's this voice in my head—which sounds suspiciously like my father—saying I'm being naive."

The server returns with our drinks, and I take a gulp of water, trying to organize my thoughts.

"What does your gut tell you?" Reese asks after he’s gone.

"That he's telling the truth. I don't think he's seeing anyone else." I play with my straw wrapper, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "But that's not the only issue."

"Fuck… what else happened?"

"Even if this photo was fake news, what about the next one? Because you know there’s going to be another one. Many more, I’m guessing." I lean back against the booth. "Dating Nate means signing up for public scrutiny I don’t want. It means my personal life becoming tabloid fodder."

She tilts her head. "Is that really what's bothering you, or is it something else?"

"What do you mean?"

She gives me a knowing look. "Are you actually more worried about what your dad is going to think about all of this?"

The observation hits home harder than I want to admit. "That's not it."

"Isn't it though?" She softens her voice. "El, you've been trying to live up to your dad's expectations your entire life. You literally became a sports psychologist because he suggested it."

"I love what I do," I protest.

"I know you do. But that doesn't change the fact that his voice has always been the loudest in your head." She leans forward. "What does he think about Nate?"

I fiddle with my napkin. "He's... cautiously accepting. He admitted Nate seems different lately, more focused. He even said my mom would have liked him."

Her eyes widen. "Wow. That's huge coming from your dad."

"I know." I smile faintly. "But he also made me promise that if Nate reverts to his old ways, I'll walk away. No second chances."

"And you're worried this photo thing is the beginning of that?" Reese asks.

"No. I mean, not if it's really old." I sigh in frustration. "I don't know what I'm worried about anymore. That's the problem."

Our pizza arrives, steam rising from its deep-dish perfection. Neither of us moves to take a slice.

"Let me ask you something," Reese says, folding her arms on the table. "What do you want? Not what your dad wants, not what's sensible or safe. What do you want?"

I stare at the pizza, watching the cheese slowly settle. "I want..." The words stick in my throat.

"Yes?"

"I want Nate." The admission feels both terrifying and freeing. "I want to be with him. I want to see if what we have is real. I want to stop second-guessing everything because I'm afraid of getting hurt."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

I pick up a slice with mushrooms and put it on my plate. "Because it's scary, Reesey. What if I'm wrong about him? What if this whole changed-man thing is temporary? What if I give him my heart and he shatters it?"

"What if he doesn't?" she counters. "What if this is the real thing, and you miss out on it because you're too afraid to reach for it?"

I take a bite of pizza to avoid answering, but Reese just waits, patient as always when she knows I'm processing.

"It's not just my dad's voice in my head," I admit finally. "It's my own insecurities too. Why would someone like Nate—who could have literally anyone—want to be with me?"

She rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding me right now? You're brilliant, gorgeous, successful, and you actually understand his world. You're not some puck bunny who's after his money or fame."

"But those women are usually stunning."

"So are you. And you're the whole package, not just a pretty face." She takes a bite of her pizza. "Besides, have you considered that maybe that's exactly why he wants you? Because you're not impressed by the Nate Barnes one-man show?"

I hadn't thought of it that way. "Maybe."

"Look," she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. "I can't tell you what to do. But I know you, Elena. You overthink everything. Sometimes you need to follow your heart instead of your head."

"Says the woman who's still single." I shoot her a teasing smile.

"Hey, I'm just very selective." She winks. "Speaking of which, I have an idea. Let's go to the Blades game tonight."

I nearly choke on my water. "What? You don’t even like hockey."

She shrugs with exaggerated casualness. "I might have a tiny crush on McCoy."

"Oh my god! Since when?"

"Since I ran into him at that charity thing a couple weeks ago. He's surprisingly funny." She blushes slightly. "And he fills out a suit in ways that should be illegal."

I laugh. “You know he’s a bit of a player, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t say I want to marry him… I just think he’s hot.”

"So you want to use my emotional crisis as an excuse to ogle a cute hockey player?" I ask.

"No, I want to support my best friend while she figures out what she wants." She grins. "The ogling is just a bonus."

I consider it. Part of me wants to see Nate play live. And I know I can always get a couple of decent tickets through my dad.

"I don't know. I still need to think about all of this."

"So think. But maybe seeing him all sexy and sweaty in his element will help clarify things."

I hesitate, torn between wanting to see him and fearing the emotions that might surface.

"You don't have to decide about your relationship tonight," Reese adds, sensing my reluctance. "Just come watch the game with me."

"Fine," I relent. "But I'm not promising to talk to him afterwards."

"Fair enough. Now stop stewing and eat your pizza before it gets cold." She flashes me a smile and I realize I’m being just a little bit of a drama queen today.

As we finish our meal, I pull out my phone. I stare at it for a long moment, then type out a simple message to Nate: "Good luck at the game tonight."

I hit send before I can overthink it.

"There," I say, putting my phone down. "I told him I’d be in contact today and now I have."

Reese grins. "The journey of a thousand miles, and all that jazz."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. Maybe she's right. Maybe I do overthink everything. Maybe sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith and trust that you'll figure out how to land safely.

Later that night, the stadium thrums with energy, bodies pressed together in a sea of red and black.

Dad scored us seats just eight rows up from the glass—close enough to feel the vibration when players slam into the boards.

I’m settling into my seat, trying to look casual while my stomach ties itself in knots.

I haven't been to a Blades game since I left the organization, and now here I am, about to watch the man I've been avoiding for twenty-four hours skate onto the ice.

"Stop fidgeting," Reese whispers, nudging me with her elbow. "You look like you're about to lose your shit."

"Maybe I am." I rub my hands against my thighs. "This was a terrible idea."

"This was a brilliant idea," she corrects, scanning the ice. "Oh my god, there he is."

"Nate?" I follow her gaze.

"No, McCoy." She sighs dramatically. "What a specimen…That man was built in a lab!"

I laugh despite myself. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm deeply appreciative of fine athletic specimens." She winks. "Speaking of which, there's your boy."

My eyes find him immediately—gliding onto the ice with that effortless grace that always surprises me given his size. Even in full gear, Nate stands out—something about the way he moves, confident but controlled.

"Did you tell him you were coming?" Reese asks.

I shake my head. "Just the good luck text."

The announcer's voice booms through the arena as the starting lineup is introduced. When they call Nate's name, the crowd roars. He raises his stick in acknowledgment, turning in a slow circle as if taking in the energy of eighteen thousand fans.

For a split second, I wonder if he's looking for me. Then I shake the thought away. He has no idea I'm here.

The puck drops, and the game begins. I've always enjoyed hockey, but watching Nate play is something else entirely.

He's everywhere at once—digging the puck out of corners, setting up plays, backchecking with ferocious determination.

When he scores midway through the first period, the arena erupts, and I find myself on my feet cheering.