Page 5

Nate

Her dark hair spills across the white pillowcase. One arm is tucked beneath her cheek, the other stretched toward me, fingers slightly curled. For a fleeting moment, I consider staying, and waiting for her to wake up so I can get just one more kiss.

But that's not what I do. Not who I am.

I ease myself up slowly, careful not to disturb her.

Years of practice have made me good at this part—the silent extraction.

I slide out from under the sheets with the precision of a surgeon, making sure the warm cocoon around her remains undisturbed.

My feet touch the carpet without a sound.

I stand naked, watching the gentle rise and fall of her.

Last night was... different. I'm not sure why.

I've had plenty of one-night stands before—some good, some forgettable.

But something about Elena makes me feel uneasy.

The way she responded to me, uninhibited yet somehow still holding something back.

The little gasps she made when I hit just the right spot.

The way her eyes widened when I asked to blindfold her, a perfect mix of nervousness and excitement.

I shake the thoughts away. This is dangerous territory.

I gather my clothes from where they were hastily discarded last night.

Boxers. Jeans. T-shirt—slightly stretched now from its brief career as a blindfold.

I dress quickly while my mind continues to replay fragments of the night.

Her taste. Her heat. Her laugh—unexpectedly deep and genuine when I made some stupid joke about the hotel's pretentious drink names.

The hotel notepad sits on the desk by the window. I tear off a sheet quietly, considering what to write. Usually, it's something generic. "Had fun. Take care." But Elena deserves more than that.

I pick up the pen, tap it against my palm twice before scrawling: "Thanks for an unforgettable night—N.

" Simple. True. Noncommittal. I fold it in half and place it on the pillow where my head rested minutes ago.

For a second, I consider adding my number, but I don't. That would complicate things.

And complications are what I avoid most diligently in my life.

The door clicks shut behind me with barely a sound.

The hallway stretches before me, empty and quiet at this early hour.

My reflection in the elevator's mirrored walls looks back at me—hair disheveled, overgrown stubble, a small red mark on my neck that wasn’t there before.

I seem to remember her teeth finding that spot.

Outside, Chicago is just waking up. The sky holds that cool pre-dawn color—not quite night anymore, not yet day.

A few taxis crawl along the streets. An early-morning jogger passes, breath visible in the cool air.

I start walking, letting the rhythm of the city take my mind off what happened last night.

The Palmer House recedes behind me as I walk north, hands in my pockets, collar turned up against the fall chill.

My temporary apartment is about twelve blocks away, but I don't mind the walk.

It'll clear my head. Give me time to file away last night into the category of good memories that don't need revisiting.

"It was just sex," I mutter to myself, earning a strange look from a guy unlocking the door of a convenience store. Great, now I'm talking to myself on the street like an unhinged person.

But maybe it wasn’t just sex. The connection was immediate, electric. Not just physical, though god knows that part was incredible. There was something else–an unexpected connection. Like finding someone who speaks your language in a country of strangers.

I stop at a corner and wait for traffic to pass, watching my breath cloud in front of me. I should have gotten her number. I should have?—

No. This is exactly what I don't do. I don't get attached. I don't wonder about women after I leave their beds. I don't replay conversations in my head. That's a game for people who want relationships, commitments, futures together. Not me.

There are plenty of women in Chicago. Beautiful, interesting women who would happily follow me upstairs for a night. Women who understand the rules—fun without strings, pleasure without promises. I've never had trouble finding them.

So why am I standing at this intersection, fighting the urge to turn around? And what would I do when I got back to the hotel? It’s not like I can just slip back into her room. And camping out in front of her door is a really bad look.

Get ahold of yourself, dude.

The light changes. I cross the street, forcing myself to keep moving forward. By the time I reach my building, the sun has broken through the city haze. The doorman nods as I enter and I give him a quick nod back.

In the elevator, I lean against the wall, suddenly tired. Maybe I didn’t sleep as well as I thought I did.

Or maybe its the stress of coming back to Chicago after swearing I never would. Facing old teammates, old mistakes.

As I reach my floor, I push the thoughts away. I don’t have time to be tired. I’ve got practice to get to and a coach to impress. Otherwise, I’ll just get traded again. And though I didn’t see myself in Chicago again, there are other towns that are far worse.

I twist the key in the lock, jiggling it twice before the stubborn mechanism gives way. The hallway light above me flickers like a broken scoreboard. Home sweet home—courtesy of the Chicago Blades' "player accommodation" budget, which apparently isn’t very large.

I shove the door open and the stale smell of old pizza and dirty laundry hits me like a cheap shot to the ribs.

The apartment is exactly as I left it last night—a disaster zone of half-unpacked boxes and bachelor squalor. I drop my bag on the threadbare couch. Four days here and already can’t wait to move into my own place.

This isn't what I pictured when I got the call about the trade.

Though what did I expect? The red carpet?

A fucking parade? Not after the way I left.

The Blades made it clear this was a last resort for them—a desperate move by a team plagued with injuries.

They needed a right wing who can score, and I needed a team that would take me after New York practically threw me out.

I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen, opening the fridge to find a Gatorade and some questionable takeout containers. Breakfast of champions. I take a swig of the cold liquid, but it does nothing to dislodge the knot that's now sitting in my throat.

Two years ago, I left Chicago with burned bridges smoking behind me. Now I'm back, and pretending it's all water under the bridge. I’m not sure if Coach and the players feel the same way, but I highly doubt it.

I drop onto the couch, staring at the crack in the ceiling and start thinking about what happened during my last game playing for New York.

The memory hits me like a body check—Pearson's face contorted with rage as he skated straight at me, mask off, gloves dropped.

"You fucked my sister!" he'd screamed, loud enough for the mics to pick up, loud enough for everyone in the arena to hear.

I remember the confusion first—who the hell was Pearson's sister? Then I knew. Her face flashed in my mind. Blonde. Gorgeous. Said she worked in sports management. Never mentioned her brother was the Rangers' starting goalie.

"She's an adult," I shot back. “She can do whatever—or whoever—she wants.”

His first punch caught me off guard, connecting with my jaw. The crowd roared. My teammates backed away—they seemed to know exactly what was going on. Apparently I was the only one who didn’t know how pissed Pearson was.

I'd taken the first hit, but I sure as hell wasn't going to take a second. When he came at me again, I was ready. One punch, then two, then I grabbed his arm and twisted. The crack was audible even over the noise of the crowd. His scream echoed through the arena as he dropped to the ice.

Medical staff rushed out. Players from both teams swarmed. Refs pulled me away as Pearson writhed on the ice, clutching his broken arm. There was no way he was coming back to the ice anytime soon.

My suspension came first—six games. Then the trade. The Rangers wanted nothing to do with me anymore.

I take another sip, feeling that burn of anger and trying to push the scene back out of my head.

Elena. Her name floats back into my consciousness, bringing with it images from last night that make my body respond despite my sour mood. For a moment, I let myself wonder what she's doing now. If she's awake. If she's read my note. If she's thinking about me too.

I shake the thought away and reach for my phone, thumbing through notifications. Two missed calls from my agent. A text from Daniels, one of the few guys on the team I'm still on decent terms with: "Practice at 9. Don't be late."

And then another text from HR: "Mandatory meeting with the team's in-house psychologist at 7:30 a.m."

"Fuck," I mutter, dropping the phone onto the cushion beside me.

The team shrink. Another hoop to jump through, another person to convince that I was just defending myself from a guy who skated across the ice to attack me.

I picture some fifty-year-old man with a beard and elbow patches on his sweater, asking me how I "feel" about being traded again.

About coming back to Chicago. About my "anger management issues. "

A laugh rumbles in my throat, but there's no humor in it. Just resignation. This is the price I pay for my past—endless scrutiny, constant evaluation, perpetual probation. One misstep and I'm done. The Blades are my last chance, and everyone knows it.

I drain the rest of my drink and stand, suddenly restless. I pace the small living room, my mind racing with all the “right” answers to questions I haven't even heard yet.

I toss my empty bottle toward the kitchen trash, missing by inches. It clatters across the linoleum.

My roommate’s jacket lies where I dropped it, a black leather heap on the floor.

I stare at it, remembering Elena's face when I pulled those panties from the pocket.

Her shock, then amusement, then something else—interest, maybe.

Definitely desire. The memory should make me smile, but instead, I feel a strange emptiness.

For a moment, I let myself imagine a different scenario—one where I left my number. One where I'm texting her now, making plans to see her again. One where I'm something more than a guy with a reputation he can't outrun and a career hanging by a thread.

But that's not reality. Reality is this crappy apartment, the looming meeting with the shrink, and the knowledge that I'm one mistake away from losing everything. Again.