Page 7

"Is it?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You want to know what makes me tick, Doc. What pushes my buttons. What sets me off." His voice drops lower. "I could ask you the same questions. What makes you tick? What pushed your buttons last night?"

My pen freezes mid-word. The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Images flash: his hands in my hair, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his voice rough against my ear.

"Mr. Barnes," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "If you can't maintain professional boundaries, this arrangement won't work."

"Professional boundaries," he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Like the ones you maintained in the elevator? Or on the bed? Or against the wall when I?—"

"Enough." I stand abruptly, needing to shift the power dynamic. "Let's try a different approach. Tell me about your previous experience with the Blades. You played here before, correct?"

He watches me for a moment, then nods, accepting the subject change. "Two years ago. For three seasons."

"And how was that experience?"

"It was fine until it wasn't." He shrugs again. "Your father and I didn't see eye to eye on certain things."

"Such as?"

"Such as how I spend my time off the ice. Who I spend it with." His eyes hold mine, loaded with meaning. "He has very specific ideas about what his players should and shouldn't do. Who they should and shouldn't fuck."

The crude word hits me like a slap. "Mr. Barnes?—"

"Nate," he corrects. "You called me Nate last night. Quite a few times, actually. Especially when you were?—"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," I say, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "These comments are inappropriate and unprofessional."

"You weren't complaining about my mouth being inappropriate last night." His gaze drops to my lips. "In fact, I seem to remember you enjoyed my mouth very much. I still have the scratches on my shoulders to prove it."

My face burns. I sit back down, needing the desk between us as a barrier. "We need to establish ground rules for these sessions."

I grip my pen so tightly I'm afraid it might snap. "Rule number one: no references to personal matters. Rule number two: last night never happened. Rule number three: if you can't maintain appropriate behavior, I will end the session."

"Whatever you say, Doc." He smirks at me.

I try to steer the conversation back to safe territory. "Let's talk about your goals for this season. What do you hope to accomplish with the Blades?"

"Professionally? Score goals. Win games. Stay out of the penalty box." He tilts his head. "Personally? That's more complicated."

I swallow hard. "Mr. Barnes?—"

"What color panties are you wearing today?" he asks suddenly, his voice casual as if he's commenting on the weather. "Loved the pair you had on last night. Though they didn't stay on very long, did they?"

The pen snaps in my hand, ink splattering across my notes. "Session's over," I say, standing again. "We'll try again next week if you can behave professionally."

He rises slowly, unhurried. "Looking forward to it, Doc." His eyes travel over me one last time, lingering in places that makes my skin tingle with memory and unwanted desire.

He slowly walks to the door. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder.

"For what it's worth," he says, his voice unexpectedly sincere, "last night wasn't just sex for me. There was something there. Something real."

Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

I sink back into my chair, my body humming with a confusing mix of anger, embarrassment, and—damn it—arousal. The memory of his hands on me, his body over mine, plays on repeat in my mind.

This is a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And the worst part? Part of me wants it to happen again.

I sit down at my desk, reaching for tissues to clean the ink staining my fingers. The blue blotches look like bruises against my skin, reminders of how quickly I lost control of the situation.

“You have to get it together, girl.”

I open my desk drawer and pull out a new pen, clicking it repeatedly as I try to organize my thoughts. The memory of his parting words echoes in my mind: "It wasn't just sex for me. There was something there. Something real."

Bullshit. That's what athletes do—they charm, they seduce, they make you feel special, and then they move on to the next conquest.

I was sixteen when Dad caught me flirting with one of his rookie players after practice. The boy was barely nineteen, all bright smiles and eager eyes, asking if I wanted to see a movie sometime. Before I could answer, my father appeared between us like a storm cloud.

"Elena, wait in the car." His voice left no room for argument.

Later, during the tense drive home, he delivered a lecture I can still recite from memory.

"Hockey players are nothing but trouble, Elena.

They live in a bubble—money, fame, women throwing themselves at them.

They don't know how to form real connections.

To them, everything's a game they can win, including people's hearts. "

"He just asked me to a movie, Dad. It's not a marriage proposal."

"It starts with a movie, then suddenly you're just another puck bunny hanging around, hoping to be noticed. You're smarter than that. You're worth more than that."

I'd rolled my eyes then, chalking it up to overprotective dad syndrome. But over the years, I'd seen enough to know there was truth in his words. Athletes lived different lives, operated by different rules.

And now here I am, having crossed the very line my father drew in bright red permanent marker.

I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes until my next appointment. I need to pull myself together.

I stand and walk to the small private bathroom attached to my office, grateful for this small perk of my position. The woman in the mirror looks flushed, her eyes weary, her hair slightly disheveled despite her efforts this morning to tame it.

I splash cold water on my face, careful not to smudge my makeup, and take several deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Center yourself. Find your focus.

As I dry my hands, I make a promise to myself: I will never, ever spend time with Nate Barnes outside this facility again. No matter how charming he is, no matter how good the sex was, no matter how gorgeous those eyes are. This ends now. It has to.

I return to my desk and open the file for my next patient—a veteran defenseman recovering from knee surgery, worried about his future with the team. This I can handle. This is what I'm trained for.

By lunchtime, I've seen three more players without incident. Each session went smoothly, professionally—exactly as they should. I'm starting to feel like myself again, rather than the flustered woman Nate Barnes reduced me to this morning.

I unwrap my sandwich at my desk, not quite ready to brave the facility's cafeteria where I might run into my father. Or worse, Nate. My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Reese's name flashes on the screen.

"Hey, Reesey," I answer, instantly comforted by the connection to my oldest friend.

"Hi, sweetness!" Reese's voice fills my office, bright and warm. "How's the first day going? Saved any tortured athlete souls yet?"

I laugh despite myself. "It's going fine. Just the usual intake stuff, getting to know the players."

"Any hot ones?" She asks this every time we talk about my job. It's our running joke—me, surrounded by elite athletes, steadfastly maintaining professional ethics while she encourages me to "live a little."

My stomach clenches. "You know I can’t go there, girl. They’re my clients."

"And I'm not saying sleep with them. Just appreciate the view from a distance. Window shopping only." She laughs. “I need to live vicariously through you, girl. You know that. All I get to look at all day are kindergartners. I mean, they’re adorable, but I need more…”

"Hey, when are we doing dinner? I need all the San Francisco gossip, and you need to hear about the disaster that was my Tinder date last night."

"Tomorrow night? I should be done by five." The normalcy of making plans with Reese feels like a lifeline. "Maybe that new Thai place on Michigan?"

"Perfect. I'll book it." There's a pause, then her voice softens. "Seriously though, how are you? Being back, working with your dad... that's a lot."

The concern in her voice nearly undoes me. Reese knows everything about my complicated relationship with my father, my need to prove myself to him. She was the one who encouraged me to go to California, to build my own life away from Chicago.

"It's..." I search for the right word. "Dad's being Dad. You know how he is. I actually haven’t seen him today yet."

Reese sighs. "Are you settling in okay at the hotel?"

My mind flashes to last night—Nate's hands on my body, his mouth on my skin.

I should tell her. Right now. I could say, "Actually, Reese, I had a one-night stand with a complete stranger who turned out to be one of my father's players, and now I have to counsel him while pretending I don't know what he looks like naked."

The words are right there, pressing against my lips. Reese wouldn't judge me. She'd probably laugh, then help me figure out how to handle it.

But saying it out loud would make it real. Right now, it exists in a strange liminal space—a mistake that happened in the dark, that can be buried and forgotten if I just don't acknowledge it.

"The hotel's fine," I say instead. "Can't wait to move into my own place soon though."

We chat for a few more minutes about logistics for dinner tomorrow, Reese's parent-teacher conferences, and my search for a decent running route near my new apartment.

After we hang up, I sit in silence, staring at my half-eaten lunch. The truth sits heavy in my body—not just what happened with Nate, but my decision to keep it secret, even from Reese.