Page 39

Elena

I arrange the chairs in my office to face each other at a comfortable angle. Not directly across—too confrontational. Not side by side—too avoidant. The perfect forty-five degree angle that invites conversation without forcing eye contact. A small detail, but one I think really matters.

My door opens after a soft knock, and Marco peeks his head in. The Steel's promising young shortstop. Twenty-two, brilliant fielder, but his batting average has plummeted in the last month.

"Come in." I gesture to the carefully positioned chair. "How's the shoulder today?"

"Better." He rolls it as he sits. "Still tight but not like before." Marco takes his cap off and then fidgets with it, twisting it in his hands.

"Let's talk about yesterday's game." I keep my voice even, calm. "Seventh inning, bases loaded. Walk me through what happened."

His knee begins to bounce. "I choked. Again."

"Describe what you were feeling, not the result."

He looks out the window, squinting against the bright spring sunlight. "My heart was pounding. I couldn't breathe right. It felt like everyone was watching me, waiting for me to fail."

"They were watching you," I say. "But they weren't waiting for you to fail."

"Felt like it." He shrugs. "Every time I step up to the plate now, all I can think about is how I'm going to screw up."

I lean forward slightly. "The anxiety creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. You expect to fail, so your body tenses. Tensing disrupts your mechanics. Disrupted mechanics lead to failure."

"So how do I stop it?" His eyes meet mine directly for the first time this session.

"We break the cycle." I pull out a notebook. "First, we identify your physical anxiety responses. Then we create anchors to interrupt them."

We spend the next forty minutes developing a personalized anxiety management plan. Breathing techniques. Visualization exercises. A specific pre-batting routine to ground him in the present moment.

"I want you to practice these techniques daily," I tell him as our session wraps up. "Not just during games. The more practiced they become, the more automatically you'll use them when it matters."

Marco nods, looking more relaxed than when he arrived. "This helps. Talking it through."

"That's what I’m here for." I smile. "We'll check in again on Thursday before the road trip."

"Thanks, Elena." He stands, extending his hand.

I shake his hand and he leaves. He’s noticeably more relaxed.

I make notes on our session while it's fresh. Marco's anxiety has classic triggers, but his willingness to work through it gives me hope. This is why I love my job—those moments when I can actually see someone start to believe in themselves again.

A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.

"Delivery for Elena Martinez."

A young guy in an army-green jacket stands there, holding a paper bag with 'Rosetta's' printed on the side.

My favorite Italian restaurant. The scent of garlic and fresh basil wafts toward me.

"I didn't order anything," I say, confused.

He shrugs and hands me the bag. "I don’t know. It’s got your name on it and it’s paid for, including tip."

"Thank you." I take the bag, setting it on my desk as he leaves.

Inside the bag: chicken parm with extra sauce on the side, just how I like it. A side of their amazing garlic knots. And tiramisu for dessert.

It has to be from Nate. Who else would buy me lunch and have it delivered?

I pick up my phone and snap a photo of the spread, sending it to him with a text: “Did you do this?”

He replies immediately: “Maybe ”

"OMG! You're the best! ”

He texts back: "Are you ready for what I'm going to do to you this weekend?"

My cheeks flush hot. Our long weekend in New York. No hockey. No baseball. No family or friends or responsibilities.

"Can't wait." I text back. "But now I'm distracted and hungry in more ways than one."

"Perfect. That’s just the way I want you."

I laugh out loud, alone in my office. My phone buzzes again.

"Eat your lunch. I know you probably skipped breakfast."

He's right. I did.

I take a bite of perfectly sauced chicken parm, savoring the flavor. As I eat, I watch rain begin to fall outside my window, fat drops racing each other down the glass.

It hits me then, simple and overwhelming. I love him.

I’m in love with Nate Barnes.

I've never said those words to any man before. Never felt them this completely. Never been so certain and so vulnerable at the same time.

When did it happen? Was it when he started therapy, showing me he was serious about change? When he met with my dad man-to-man to ask for his blessing?

Or was it earlier? That first night at the hotel bar, when something inside me recognized something inside him?

I don't know. And it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's real. What matters is that for the first time in my life, I'm not overthinking this. I'm just feeling it.

My phone buzzes with a text from the team's pitching coach, asking if I can meet before practice. Back to reality…

I pack up the remaining food, saving the tiramisu for later. The rain falls harder now, drumming against my window, but inside I feel nothing but warmth. Three more days until New York. Three more days until I have Nate Barnes completely to myself.

Sunlight filters through a gap in the heavy hotel curtains, painting a stripe of gold across Nate's bare shoulder. I trace it with my fingertip, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath mine. He sleeps deeply, one arm flung above his head, the other curled possessively around my waist.

Outside our window, Manhattan disappears behind a curtain of swirling snow.

Nate stirs, his eyes fluttering open. That first moment when he sees me – the slow smile, the softening around his eyes – makes my heart skip every time.

"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep, and so sexy.

"It's almost noon." I press my lips to his shoulder.

He pulls me closer, tangling our legs together beneath the rumpled sheets. His hand slides down my back, cupping my ass. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long." I rest my cheek against him, listening to the steady thump in his chest. "It's still snowing."

He cranes his neck to look through the gap in the curtains. "Shit. It's really coming down."

We arrived in New York on Friday afternoon, managed dinner at a tiny Italian place around the corner, then retreated to our hotel as the first flakes began to fall.

Yesterday, we made it as far as the coffee shop downstairs before the weather turned us back to bed.

Now Sunday stretches before us, our last full day in the city.

"We should probably see something besides this room," I muse, not making any move to get up.

"Definitely." He gently massages my hip. "Empire State Building. Central Park. All that tourist stuff."

"Mmm-hmm." I trail my hand down his chest. "We should shower first though."

"Excellent plan." His eyes darken as my hand drifts lower.

"And we'll need coffee."

"Critical." He rolls suddenly, pinning me beneath him, his weight delicious and heavy. "And breakfast."

"Absolutely essential." I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling him hard against me.

"But first..." He lowers his head, capturing my mouth with his.

The kiss is hungry, needy. My body responds instantly, arching into his. We've been together countless times now, but the wanting never diminishes. If anything, it grows stronger with each encounter, our bodies learning each other more thoroughly each time.

His hands are everywhere – cupping my breasts, sliding between my legs, tangled in my hair. I give as good as I get, dragging my nails down his back the way I know drives him crazy.

“You ready for my cock?”

“You know I am.”

"Condom," he murmurs against my throat.

I reach blindly toward the nightstand, where the box has taken permanent residence these past two days. He rolls it on with practiced ease, then settles between my thighs again.

Our eyes lock as he pushes inside me. The feeling of fullness makes me moan.

When he’s deep inside me, he pauses for a moment. "Are you sore, baby? I can be gentle if you want."

“No, I’m fine. Don’t stop.” I absolutely am sore, but I don’t care.

He holds my gaze as he begins to move. Slow at first, then faster as we find our rhythm. His hands grip my hips, adjusting the angle until it’s perfect.

"Right there," I gasp.

He drives into me deeper, hitting that perfect spot with each thrust. I feel the delicious tension building, and I know that I’m close.

"Come for me, baby." His eyes never leave mine. "Let me see you."

My orgasm rolls through me, intense and overwhelming. I cry out, clutching at his shoulders, my body clenching around him.

"God, yes, right there," Nate growls, his rhythm becoming more frantic. He grips my thighs, spreading them wider. "You feel so fucking good around my cock."

I'm still trembling from my own release as he drives into me harder, faster, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

"You're mine," he pants, eyes wild with desire. "Say it."

"I'm yours," I gasp, the words sending him even deeper.

"Nobody makes you feel like this," he demands, his voice rough and possessive. "Nobody fucks you like I do."

"Nobody," I agree.

His movements become erratic, desperate. "I'm gonna come so hard for you, baby."

His whole body tenses, and he throws his head back with a shout that echoes through the room. "FUCK! Oh my GOD!"

He collapses on top of me, trembling with aftershocks. I wrap my arms around him, holding him through it.

I laugh softly, running my fingers through his damp hair. "I'm pretty sure the entire floor heard you."

"Don't care," he mumbles against my neck. "That was so worth it.”

We hold eat other, waiting for our pulses to slow. Outside, the snow continues to fall.

"Still want to see the Empire State Building?" he asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I laugh. "Maybe after breakfast."

We shower together, which leads to another delay in our sightseeing plans. By the time we emerge, wrapped in fluffy hotel robes, it's nearly two in the afternoon.

"Room service?" Nate suggests, scrolling through the menu on the TV.

"Perfect."

We order a feast—eggs benedict, pancakes, fruit, coffee, mimosas—then curl up by the window to watch the snow while we wait.

The city below is transformed, softened by white. Cars crawl along the streets and people hurry along the sidewalks, scarves wrapped around their faces.

"It's beautiful," I say, leaning back against Nate's chest. His arms encircle me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.

"Not as beautiful as you."

I elbow him gently. "That was cheesy."

"Maybe. But absolutely true." He kisses my neck.

Our food arrives, interrupting what surely would have led us back to bed. We eat cross-legged on the king-sized mattress, sharing bites and stealing kisses between sips of coffee.

"We really should go out," I say, licking maple syrup from my fingers. "Just for a little while. So we can say we actually got out of our hotel room."

Nate watches my mouth, his eyes darkening. "Absolutely. Right after this."

He takes my sticky fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. The sensation shoots straight through me. Fuck, this man has a gift...

"That's not fair," I whisper.

"All's fair in love and war, baby." He grins.

Love. The word hangs between us, unspoken but present. I've been carrying it inside me for days now, waiting for the right moment. Is this it? Here in this hotel room, with room service trays scattered around us and the snow falling outside?

Before I can decide, Nate's phone rings. He glances at it, frowning slightly.

"It's McCoy. I should take this."

I busy myself clearing away our dishes, stacking them on the room service cart outside our door.

When I return, Nate's standing at the window, still on the phone. His broad shoulders block much of the view, but I can see the snow is falling harder now, swirling in great white gusts.

"Yeah, we're snowed in," he's saying. "Flight's not until tomorrow morning, so hopefully it clears by then." A pause. "Nah, we're good. Plenty of food. Warm hotel room." Another pause, then a laugh. "Fuck off, McCoy. I'll see you at practice Tuesday."

He hangs up, turning to find me watching him.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. He wanted to make sure we weren't stranded." Nate crosses the room, pulling me into his arms. "Guess we have a legitimate excuse to stay in now. Apparently all non-essential travel is discouraged. Even just being outside."

I loop my arms around his neck. "So sightseeing is off the table?"

"Tragically." He doesn't look disappointed at all. "Whatever shall we do instead?"

I stand on tiptoe, pressing my lips to that spot just below his ear that makes him shiver. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me back to bed. As Nate lays me down on the sheets, looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted, the words rise up in my throat again. I love you. Three simple words that could change everything.

But before I can say them, he stops kissing me and clears his throat.

"I love you, Elena."

The words hang in the air between us, and suddenly he looks so vulnerable. "I think I've loved you since that first night at the Palmer House. When you looked at me like you could see right through all my bullshit."

My breath catches. Time seems to stop, the world narrowing to just this bed, this man, this moment.

"I didn't plan to say it like this," he continues, voice rough with emotion. "I wanted it to be perfect, but I can't hold it in anymore."

Tears spring to my eyes, happiness expanding in me until I think it might burst. "I love you too, Nate."

His face transforms, relief and joy washing over his features. He cups my face in his hands like I'm something precious. "Say it again."

"I love you." The words come easier now.

He kisses me deeply. When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling. This moment is so perfect—his body covering mine, his eyes telling me everything I need to know. I couldn’t be any happier.