Page 41

One Year Later

The horn blares as the clock hits zero. The roar of eighteen thousand fans crashes over me like a wave as I throw my gloves into the air, my teammates slamming into me from all sides. McCoy grabs my helmet, screaming something I can't hear over the crowd.

I scan the stands, looking for Elena. She's there in her usual spot, fifteen rows up from our bench, wearing my away jersey and jumping up and down. Our eyes lock across the distance, and she blows me a kiss. One year together, and she still makes my heart stop.

We form the handshake line, a blur of sweaty, exhausted men congratulating each other through gritted teeth. The Minnesota players look shell-shocked. I would too if I'd just blown a three-goal lead in the third period.

"Hell of a game, Barnesy," their captain mutters as we shake hands.

"Thanks, man." I nod, respecting the sportsmanship.

Back in the locker room, champagne flies everywhere. Coach stands in the center, trying to look stern and failing miserably. The man who once saw me as his biggest headache is now grinning as I pour champagne over his head.

"Alright, settle down!" he shouts over the chaos. "Save some energy for the next game, boys!"

I sit at my stall, peeling off sweat-soaked gear. Two goals and an assist tonight. The game-winner with forty-three seconds left. Career-defining stuff, but all I can think about is getting out of here to see Elena.

"Barnesy!" Evans calls from across the room. "Media's asking for you specifically."

I nod, pulling on a clean Blades T-shirt. Media obligations—a necessary evil. A year ago, I'd have been irritated, looking for the fastest way to escape. Now, I understand it's just part of the job.

The media scrum surrounds me as soon as I step into the hallway. Microphones thrust toward my face, cameras flashing.

"Nate, talk us through that final goal."

I answer automatically. "McCoy made an incredible pass. I just had to put it home."

More questions follow—about momentum, about Minnesota's collapse, about our chances in the finals this year. Standard stuff until a voice cuts through from the back.

"Barnes, quite a change from your reputation a few years ago. The league's wildest player has now been domesticated. How does it feel to be tamed?"

The room goes quiet. I recognize the reporter—Simmons from the Hockey Post, known for trying to provoke players into headline-worthy responses. I feel that old instinct to lash out.

Instead, I take a breath. Meet his eyes. Smile.

"I didn't get tamed," I say, my voice level. "I just found someone worth behaving for."

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Simmons looks disappointed. No explosive reaction, no controversial quote. Just the truth.

"Speaking of," I add, "if that's all, my girlfriend's waiting."

The PR rep nods, and I make my exit before anyone can throw another baited hook my way. I shower quickly, throwing on jeans and a button-down that Elena bought me last month. As I'm gathering my bag, Coach appears at my stall.

"Good answer in there, with the press," he says quietly.

"Thanks, Coach."

He claps my shoulder. "You've come a long way, Barnesy."

I nod, feeling the weight of the compliment.

The family waiting area is crowded with wives, girlfriends, parents, and kids. I scan the room for Elena's dark hair, but instead, my eyes land on a face I haven't seen in person for years.

My mother.

And beside her, my father.

They stand awkwardly near the back wall. Mom's hair is grayer than I remember, Dad is more stooped. They look out of place among the other families, uncertain if they belong.

I freeze, clutching my bag tighter. We’ve been talking again after years of silence. Tentative conversations, just getting to know each other again. I kept waiting for them to ask for more money but it never came.

I knew they were flying in for the game, but seeing them here—in my world—makes it real in a way those calls haven't.

"Nate!"

Elena appears at my side, sliding her arm around my waist. She follows my gaze, understanding immediately.

"I got them seats but there weren’t any close to me," she says softly.

Of course she did. She's been encouraging this reconciliation since they first reached out.

"You good?" she asks, searching my face.

I nod, taking her hand. "Let's go say hi."

My parents straighten as we approach. Mom's eyes are bright, like she's holding back tears. Dad shifts his weight from one foot to another, never comfortable with emotional situations.

"Nathan," Mom says, her voice wobbly. "That was... you were incredible out there."

I clear my throat. "Thanks for coming."

An awkward silence stretches between us. Then Dad steps forward, hand extended.

"Proud of you, son."

It's the most sincere he's ever sounded. I take his hand, but then he surprises me by pulling me into a stiff hug. It lasts only seconds, but it's more physical affection than he's shown me since I was a kid.

"Really glad you could make it," I say, meaning it.

"Wouldn't have missed it," Mom replies. She turns to Elena. "Thank you for helping with the tickets. And for..." she glances at me, "everything else."

Elena squeezes my hand. "It was my pleasure."

The initial awkwardness begins to fade as we talk about the game. Dad actually knows hockey—points out a defensive play I made in the second period that saved a sure goal. Mom listens, never really picking up all the hockey terminology.

"We've been watching all your games," she tells me. "Getting the hockey package was your father's idea."

Dad looks embarrassed. "Well, we wanted to keep up."

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "Thanks, Dad."

Elena smoothly fills the conversation gaps, asking about their flight, their hotel, if they've ever been to Chicago before. She's good at this—making people feel comfortable, drawing them out.

"And you two?" Mom ventures, looking between us. "You seem very happy together."

"We are," I say, pulling Elena closer to my side.

"She's good for you," Dad says gruffly. "We can see that, even just from watching the games. You're... steadier now."

“I wish it weren’t so late. How about you join Elana and me for brunch tomorrow before you fly out?”

"We'd love that," Mom says quickly, before Dad can respond. "If you're sure it's no trouble."

"Of course not," Elena assures them. “We’d love to see you again.

We make plans to meet at the restaurant at eleven the next morning. As we say goodbye, Mom hugs me, holding on a beat longer than necessary.

"I'm so proud of who you've become, Nathan," she whispers.

I hug her back, feeling something heal that I didn't realize was still broken.

Dad shakes my hand again, more comfortable with this form of contact. "Good game, son. Really good game."

They leave, and I stand watching them go, still processing the whole interaction.

"How did that go for you?" Elena asks, studying my face.

"That was... good. Better than I expected."

She smiles up at me. "They're trying, Nate. It's a start."

"Because of you." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "You made this happen."

"No," she says firmly. "You did. You're the one who decided to answer when they called. You're the one who kept the conversation going. You're the one who invited them to brunch tomorrow."

I kiss her forehead, grateful beyond words for this woman who sees the best in me, who helped me see it in myself.

"Let's go home," I say, taking her hand.

Elena kicks off her boots as soon as we get through the door of my place. It's almost eleven, but neither of us could sleep if we tried. The adrenaline of the win, seeing my parents, all of it has me wired.

I watch her walk into the kitchen for water–so, so beautiful. My chest tightens with that familiar feeling—like I can't believe she's real, and she's mine. Tonight feels like everything coming full circle. And there's one more thing I need to do to make it complete.

"You were amazing tonight," she says, handing me a glass of water. "That last goal? I nearly lost my voice screaming."

"You should've heard the guys on the bench." I gulp down the water, suddenly parched. "Pretty sure they broke the sound barrier."

She laughs, setting her glass down on the counter. "And your parents? I felt like that went really well."

I run a hand through my hair. "It was... good. Weird, but good."

"They seemed genuinely proud of you."

"Yeah." I nod, thinking of my father's stiff hug, my mother's whispered words. "I think they actually were."

Elena wraps her arms around my waist, resting her head against my shoulder. I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

"I have something for you," I say against her hair.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "For me? But you're the one who just won a huge game."

I take her hand, leading her to the bedroom. "Wait here."

I go to my closet, reaching up to the top shelf where I've hidden the journal. The leather is worn now from a year of regular use, the edges of pages wavy from getting some water on it.

When I turn around, Elena is perched on the edge of the bed, watching me curiously. I sit beside her, the journal heavy in my hands.

"My therapy journal," I explain, watching her eyes widen. "I've never shown it to anyone."

"Nate..." She touches the cover gently. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "You're the reason I started therapy in the first place. You're the reason I kept going when it got tough. And you're the reason I'm..." I gesture vaguely at myself, struggling to find the words.

"The reason you're what?" she asks softly.

"Happy," I say simply.

She blinks rapidly, fighting tears. "You did that yourself. I just believed in you."

"That’s what got me through it." I hand her the journal. "I want you to see."

She takes it carefully, like it's something precious. "Do you want to show me specific parts, or...?"

"Let's go through it together."

She opens to the first page, dated from right after we started having sessions together. My handwriting is messier than usual, the words pressed hard into the paper: