Page 40

Elena

I clutch the bottle of wine tighter as we approach Dad's front door, my stomach performing Olympic-level gymnastics. Nate's hand rests on the small of my back, steady and warm through my sweater.

"Relax," he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. "He already gave us his blessing, remember?"

I nod, but can't shake the feeling that tonight matters more than all our previous interactions.

The door swings open before I can even knock. Dad stands there in jeans and a gray button-down. His eyes flicker from me to Nate, and I can practically see him swallowing whatever comment first came to mind.

"Right on time," he says instead, stepping back to let us in. "Come on in."

I lean in for our customary hug, which feels stiffer than usual. Nate extends his hand, which Dad shakes with a firm grip and unreadable expression.

"We brought wine," I say, handing over the bottle I selected with embarrassing care. Something nice but not showy, red because Dad prefers it, but not so heavy it'll clash with whatever he's making.

"Thanks." Dad examines the label with a small nod of approval. "Dinner's almost ready. Hope you like lasagna, Barnes."

"Love it," Nate says, his voice carefully measured. Not the cocky hockey player voice, not the intimate tone he uses with me, but something new—respectful without being deferential.

We follow Dad into the kitchen, where the smell of tomato sauce and herbs fills the air. The table is already set for three, a small detail that makes my throat tighten. He's making an effort.

"Can I help with anything?" I ask, falling into our habitual pattern.

Dad shakes his head. "Just grab wine glasses. Water's already on the table."

Nate stands awkwardly by the doorway until Dad points to the kitchen island. "You can make yourself useful and slice that bread."

I shoot Nate an apologetic look, but he just smiles and rolls up his sleeves. I watch as he grabs the bread knife and gets to work. There's something intimate about seeing him in my childhood kitchen, doing something so domestic.

"How's the Steel treating you?" Dad asks as he pulls the lasagna from the oven.

"Good." I fill three glasses with the Malbec Nate and I brought. "We're implementing a new mental performance program for the rookies. The GM's giving me a lot of freedom with it."

Dad nods. "I heard their shortstop is hitting again."

My eyebrows rise. "You're keeping tabs on my players?"

"I keep tabs on you. And I knew he was having a hard time and now he isn’t." He sets the steaming dish on a trivet.

Nate carries the sliced bread to the table, and for a moment, we all just stand there, the awkwardness thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Looks great," Nate says, breaking the silence. "Thanks for having us over, Coach."

"Let's eat before it gets cold." Dad gestures to the chairs. "And you can call me Anthony when we're not at the rink."

I nearly drop my wine glass. Dad offering Nate the use of his first name feels monumental—a small crack in the wall he's maintained since the moment he learned about us.

We sit, and Dad serves generous portions of lasagna onto our plates. The first few minutes pass in relative silence, broken only by murmurs of appreciation for the food.

"This is incredible," Nate says, and I can tell he genuinely means it. "Did you make this from scratch?"

Dad nods. "Old family recipe. Elena's mother taught me."

I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.

"She was Italian?" Nate asks carefully.

"Half." Dad takes a sip of wine. "Her mother came from a small town outside Naples. Taught her all the family recipes, and she passed them on to me."

"I wish I could have met her," Nate says quietly.

Dad's eyes find mine across the table. I know he’s thinking about what he told me earlier—how Mom would have liked Nate.

The conversation moves to less fraught territory—recent games, league standings, a controversial call in last night's game against Detroit. I watch as Nate and Dad find common ground in their shared world. The tension gradually ebbs from Dad, and Nate's smile becomes more natural.

"Evans mentioned you've been working with Tucker on his shot," Dad says as he serves second helpings. "Says the kid's accuracy has improved twenty percent."

Nate shrugs, but I can see he's pleased. "He's got natural talent. Just needed some extra help in learning how to use his body weight more effectively."

"And McCoy tells me you've been the first one at practice, last one off the ice."

"Just trying to set a good example." Nate's eyes flick to mine briefly. "Show the rookies what it takes."

Dad sets down his fork, his gaze steady on Nate. "You know, when you first came back to the team, I thought you were going to be a disaster."

I grip my wine glass tighter. "Dad?—"

He holds up a hand. "Let me finish, Elena." He turns back to Nate. "I thought you were talented but uncoachable. A liability we'd have to manage until your contract expired."

Nate swallows hard but meets Dad's eyes directly. "That was a fair assessment at the time."

"Maybe." Dad nods. "But lately, you've been proving me wrong."

The room goes still. I hold my breath, afraid to stop whatever's happening between them.

"You're playing the best hockey of your career," Dad continues. "Not just scoring—though your numbers are up—but in all the ways that don't show up on a stat sheet. Leadership. Responsibility. Putting the team first."

Nate's face shows genuine surprise. "Thank you, sir."

Dad glances at me, a softness in his eyes I rarely see. "My daughter has good judgment. Always has. Even when I've disagreed with her choices."

I feel tears pricking behind my eyes.

"She told me she believed in you. Said you were changing." Dad's voice grows quieter. "I was skeptical. Thought maybe you were just putting on a show to impress her."

"I wasn't," Nate says firmly.

"I know that now." Dad picks up his wine glass and takes a sip. "You've turned into a man I'm proud to have on my team."

The words hang in the air, simple but profound. I blink rapidly, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. Under the table, Nate's hand finds mine, squeezing gently.

"That means a lot, coming from you," he says, his voice slightly rough.

Dad clears his throat, clearly reaching his limit for emotional conversations. "Well. Anyone want dessert? I've got tiramisu."

The moment breaks, but something has fundamentally shifted. We finish dinner with talk of upcoming games and my latest running route around the city. By the time we're saying goodbye at the door, Dad actually claps Nate on the shoulder—a gesture I've seen him use with players he respects.

"Take care of my girl," he says.

"Always," Nate promises, and I believe him completely.

Dad hugs me tightly. "Love you, kiddo," he whispers.

"Love you too, Daddy."

Outside, the December evening is frigid. The streetlights cast long shadows as we walk hand-in-hand back toward Nate's place, our breaths forming clouds in the chilly air.

“Who thought walking here from your place was a good idea?” I ask.

“Ha! Not me, and you know it.”

I fake-punch his arm. “We need to walk off all that rich food anyway.”

"That went better than I expected," Nate says, running his thumb over my gloved knuckles.

"Understatement of the year." I lean against his side, seeking his warmth. "I never thought I'd see the day my dad would actually approve of you."

"He's a good man. Intimidating as hell, but good." Nate brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my fingers.

I smile up at him. "Take me home," I whisper.

His eyes darken. "With pleasure."

We burst through Nate's door, laughing as we stamp our feet to get the blood flowing again. "I can't feel my nose," I complain, rubbing it with my palm.

Nate pulls me against him, his hands sliding under my coat. "I know exactly how to warm you up," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. A different kind of shiver runs through me then—one that has nothing to do with the temperature.

"Do you now?" I tilt my head back to look at him. His cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold, making his blue eyes seem even brighter.

"Mmm-hmm." He helps me out of my coat, hanging it beside his on the rack. "I'm thinking a hot bath. Lots of bubbles. Maybe some wine."

I raise an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like you've been planning this."

"I plan all kinds of ways to get you naked." His dimple appears as he grins. "It's basically my favorite hobby."

He takes my hand, leading me toward his bathroom. The floor is heated marble, and the enormous soaking tub sits beneath a window with a view of the Chicago skyline. It's easily big enough for two, with jets positioned at strategic points.

"You start the water," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I'll grab the wine."

I turn the taps, adjusting until the temperature is just this side of too hot—exactly how I like it.

Steam begins to fill the room. I find bath salts that smell like sandalwood under his sink and add them to the water.

When Nate returns with two glasses of red wine, I'm already peeling off my sweater.

"Best view in Chicago," he says looking at me appreciatively and then setting the wine on the tub's edge.

I smile, reaching for the button of my jeans. "Better than that?" I nod toward the window, where city lights twinkle against the dark sky.

"Not even a contest." He steps closer, his hands replacing mine at my waistband. "Let me."

He undresses me slowly, pressing kisses to each newly exposed patch of skin. By the time I'm naked, goosebumps cover my body—partly from the temperature contrast, mostly from anticipation.

"Your turn," I say, tugging at his shirt.

His clothes join mine on the bathroom floor. I can't help staring at him—the broad shoulders, the muscled chest, the intricate tattoos. Every inch of him is perfect, a testament to years of athletic discipline. And all of it—every part of this beautiful man—belongs to me now.

He steps into the tub first, then holds my hand as I join him. The water is deliciously hot against my cold skin. We position ourselves with his back against the tub and me between his legs, my back to his chest. His arms encircle me, pulling me against him.

"Better?" he asks, reaching for the wine glasses.

"Much." I take a sip. "This is exactly what I needed. I was at that point where nothing was going to warm me up except getting in the tub."

His lips find my shoulder, then the sensitive spot where it meets my neck. "I still can’t believe how well dinner went. Did he actually say that he’s proud to have me on his team?"

I close my eyes, savoring both the physical sensations and the memory of tonight's milestone. "He did, babe. I never thought my dad would actually approve of us."

"He just needed to see that I'm serious about you." His hands massage my neck and arms lightly.

I turn my head to look at him. "So you’re serious about me, huh?"

His eyes meet mine, steady and certain. "Elena, I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

I set my wine glass down and shift in the tub, turning until I'm straddling him, water sloshing gently around us. His hands settle on my hips, steadying me.

"Show me," I whisper.

His lips capture mine, soft at first, then with growing hunger. The kiss deepens as his hands slide up my sides to cup my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, drawing a gasp from my throat.

"Sometimes I look at you and can't believe you're mine."

"I'm yours," I assure him, rolling my hips against his growing hardness. "All yours. Now what are you going to do with me?"

His hands move to my ass, guiding my movements as I rock against him. The water swirls around us, adding another layer of sensation. When his fingers slide between my legs, I moan, my head falling back.

"That's it, baby," he encourages, watching my face as he touches me.

I grab him, water dripping from my fingers as I ride his hand. He knows exactly how to touch me—where to press, how fast to move, when to slow down to draw out my pleasure.

"Nate," I gasp as the tension builds. "I need you inside me."

"Here?" he asks, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes. Now."

“I don’t have a condom in here.”

“It’s safe. I just finished my period two days ago.” We had already talked about STI testing and we’d shared our clean reports.

He shifts beneath me, positioning himself at my entrance. Our eyes lock as I sink down onto him, taking him fully inside me.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands tightening on my hips. "I’m not going to last long."

I begin to move, finding a rhythm that has water lapping at the tub's edge. His hands guide me, lifting me and bringing me down onto him with increasing intensity. Each stroke hits exactly where I need it.

"I love watching you like this," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "Taking all of me."

His words push me closer to the edge. One of his hands moves between us, his thumb circling my clit as I ride him. The dual sensation is too much. I shatter around him.

"That's it," he groans, continuing to move inside me as I pulse around him. "Fuck, yes."

As my climax subsides, he stands suddenly, lifting me with him. Water cascades off our bodies as he steps out of the tub, still inside me, my legs wrapped around his waist.

"Bed," he grunts, carrying me dripping wet into the bedroom.

He lays me on the bed, following me down, never breaking our connection. He begins to move again, deeper now, more forceful. I cling to his back, loving the feeling of his muscles working as he drives into me.

"Elena," he gasps, his rhythm faltering as he nears his own release. "I love you. So much."

"I love you too," I whisper against his ear.

His body tenses above me, and he cries out my name as he comes. I hold him through it, my hands stroking his back, my lips pressed to his shoulder.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, skin drying in the cool air. He pulls the blankets over us, tucking me against his side. I nuzzle into him.

"That was certainly one way to warm up," I say, pressing a kiss to his skin.

He laughs, the sound rumbling through him. "More effective than the bath, actually."

"I don't know. The combination was pretty spectacular."

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. "We should probably go back and drain the tub."

"In a minute," I murmur, too content to move.

He kisses the top of my head.

I smile against his him, my eyes drifting closed.

In this moment, everything feels perfect—my body satisfied, my heart full, my future suddenly clear.

This man who holds me like I'm precious, who looks at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted, who's worked so hard to become someone worthy of love—he's mine.

He was the one I was never supposed to touch. The one I couldn't resist. And the one I'll never let go.