Page 6

Elena

T he Blades training facility looms ahead of me.

I grip my leather portfolio tighter, as if it might shield me from the nerves gnawing at my stomach.

I got here early because first impressions matter—especially when your father is the head coach and everyone's watching to see if you deserve this job or just got it through nepotism.

I flash my temporary ID at the security guard, who nods me through with a sleepy "Morning, Ms. Martinez."

The hallways are quiet this early, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floors. I pass walls adorned with team photos and championship banners, generations of Chicago Blades immortalized in frames. My father's face appears in many of them, first as an assistant coach, now as head coach.

My office is tucked away in the east wing, near the medical facilities.

I open the door and flip on the lights. The space is sparse but pleasant—a desk, two comfortable chairs facing each other, a small sofa against one wall, empty bookshelves waiting to be filled.

A window overlooks the practice rink, currently empty and gleaming under the bright lights.

I set my bag and my oat milk latte down and start unpacking the few personal items I've brought: my degree in a simple frame, two small plants that survived the move from San Francisco, a few psychology textbooks to give the shelves some substance.

Nothing too personal—this is a professional space. No photos, no mementos.

Waking up alone this morning had been a strange mix of relief and disappointment.

Nate's side of the bed was cold, but a folded piece of paper sat on his pillow.

"Thanks for an unforgettable night—N." Just that.

No number, no last name. A perfect exit from a perfect stranger after a perfectly unexpected night.

Exactly what I needed before stepping back into my father's world. A night to be just Elena, not Coach Martinez's daughter or or the new team sports psychologist. Just a woman who could lose herself in a stranger's arms and not worry about consequences.

Or so I thought.

I turn on my computer and log into the team's secure server, pulling up the files for today's appointments. My first session is at 7:30 a.m.—mandatory counseling for a newly traded player. I click on the file, and a photo appears on my screen.

My stomach drops.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. That goddamn dimple on his left cheek.

Nate Barnes.

My one-night stand has a last name now. And a history. And a spot on my father's hockey team.

I read through his file with growing horror, each detail worse than the last. Traded from New York after breaking a teammate's arm in a fight.

Multiple disciplinary issues. A reputation as a "problem player" despite his undeniable talent.

Mandatory psychological evaluation and ongoing counseling as a condition of his trade to Chicago.

And a note from my father: "Watch this one carefully. Short fuse. Talented but trouble."

The room suddenly feels too hot. I tug at the collar of my blouse, trying to breathe normally. How could I not have recognized him? I haven’t followed hockey like I used to when I was growing up, but I should have known his face.

But the Nate Barnes in his team photo looks different from the man who bought me tequila shots last night—his expression more guarded, his eyes harder. Less of the playful charm that had me inviting him up to my room.

Oh god. I slept with one of my clients. One of my father's players. The very thing my father always warned me about.

"Hockey players are nothing but trouble, Elena," he'd say. "All ego and impulse control issues. They think with their sticks, not their brains."

I'd always rolled my eyes at his warnings. Now I'm living his worst nightmare.

The clock on my computer reads 7:25 a.m. Five minutes until he walks through my door. Five minutes to get my shit together and figure out how to handle this.

Professional. I need to be professional. Last night was a mistake, a cosmic joke at my expense. Today he's my client. Nothing more.

I straighten my blouse, smooth my hair, and take three deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A technique I teach my clients for managing anxiety. In this moment it helps, but only a little.

A knock on the door makes me jump. I check the time: 7:29 a.m. At least he's punctual.

"Come in," I call, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

The door opens, and there he is.

Nate Barnes.

He's dressed in team-issued workout clothes, his dark hair slightly damp like he's already been to the gym. His mouth curves into a smile of recognition, then surprise, then something I can't quite read. Amusement, maybe.

"Elena," he says, his voice the same deep rumble that whispered filthy things in my ear just hours ago. "This is… unexpected."

My hands are numb, and I feel a warmth in my chest and an uncomfortable rising in my throat that I recognize as panic. It spreads through me like wildfire, consuming every professional thought I've ever had.

"Mr. Barnes," I manage to say, gesturing to the chair across from mine. "Please, have a seat."

He closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a jail cell locking. Then he saunters—actually saunters—to the chair and drops into it, legs spread wide, entirely too comfortable.

"So," he says, eyes dancing with mischief, "should we talk about last night, or would you prefer to pretend we're meeting for the first time?"

My throat constricts. Last night replays in vivid detail—his hands on my body, his mouth against my skin, the way he made me feel things I'd never felt before. And now he's sitting across from me, my client, my father's player, smirking like he's won some game I didn't know we were playing.

I'm so, so screwed.

"I’d prefer to pretend we're meeting for the first time," I say, my voice clipped and professional despite the hurricane raging inside me.

"Whatever happened outside this facility is irrelevant to our professional relationship, Mr. Barnes.

" I shuffle papers on my desk, not seeing a single word on them–just needing something to do with my hands that doesn't involve touching him.

Nate leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine. "That's a shame. I was hoping we could build on the excellent... rapport we established last night."

"That was a mistake," I say, the words coming out harsher than I intended. "One that will not be repeated or discussed."

"A mistake?" His eyebrow arches. "Didn't feel like a mistake when you were?—"

"Stop." I hold up my hand, my pulse racing. "Before we go any further, there's something you should know." I take a deep breath, bracing myself. "Coach Martinez is my father."

The words hang in the air between us. For the first time since he walked in, Nate's confident expression falters. His eyes widen slightly, processing this new information.

"Coach Martinez," he repeats slowly. "Anthony Martinez. The man who decides my playing time, my position, my entire future with this team... is your father."

I nod once, maintaining eye contact despite the urge to look away. "Yes."

"Well, shit." He runs a hand through his hair, then lets out a low chuckle. "That complicates things."

"It doesn't complicate anything," I counter, "because nothing happened.

Nothing will happen. We are going to forget about last night and proceed as therapist and client.

And if you can't do that, I'll recommend you be assigned to another psychologist, though that will raise questions neither of us wants to answer. "

He studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. I can almost see the thoughts running behind those intense eyes. Then his posture changes, shoulders relaxing as he settles deeper into the chair.

"Alright, Doc. Your rules." His smile returns, somehow both compliant and challenging at once.

"I’m not a doctor. You can just call me Elena. Or Miss Martinez.”

He nods, eyeing me with curiosity. "So what does this mandatory counseling entail? Going to make me talk about my childhood traumas? My relationship with my parents? Why I can't stop myself from punching goalies?"

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Maybe this can work after all. I open his file, focusing on the professional task at hand.

“These sessions are meant to help you integrate with the team and address any issues that might affect your performance or behavior." I keep my tone neutral, clinical. "Given your history, the management wants to ensure you have the support you need to succeed here in Chicago."

"My history." Nate repeats the words with a slight edge. "You mean the fact that I broke Pearson's arm and got kicked off the team?"

"Among other incidents, yes." I flip through his file, noting multiple disciplinary actions across his career. "There seems to be a pattern of conflicts with teammates and management."

"He deserved it," Nate says, his voice suddenly harder. "Pearson, I mean."

"Violence is rarely the answer to?—"

"He came at me," Nate interrupts. "On the ice. Gloves dropped. You fight or you look weak. That's hockey."

"I understand the culture," I say. "But breaking someone's arm goes beyond the usual hockey fight."

He shrugs, a gesture somehow both dismissive and defensive. "He threw the first punch. I had to defend myself."

I make a note in his file, aware of his eyes following the movement of my pen. "And the reason for the altercation?"

A beat of silence. "Personal matters."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly." His eyes meet mine, challenging. "Unless you want to elaborate on what you like in bed. Seemed like you enjoyed it when I?—"

"That's inappropriate," I cut him off, my face flushing. "And completely irrelevant to this session."