Page 8

Nate

I tap my stick against the concrete floor as I walk down the hallway toward the rink, each click echoing like a countdown.

My body's on autopilot, but my mind's still stuck in that office, watching Elena try to maintain her professional composure while I thought about how she looked naked, writhing beneath me less than twelve hours earlier.

Life has a fucked-up sense of humor sometimes.

The woman I slept with last night is my new therapist. And my coach’s daughter. If I believed in God, I'd think he was either rewarding me or setting me up for the most spectacular failure of my life.

I push through the double doors leading to the locker room, early enough that only a few guys are here gearing up. They barely glance my way—the reception I've gotten since returning to Chicago has been exactly what I expected. Cold shoulders, tight nods, zero welcomes. Fair enough.

I drop my bag and start changing, while my mind replays this morning's session on a loop. The panicked look on her face when I walked into her office. The hot as fuck way she told me exactly what we were going to do about this situation.

She was all prim and proper in her pencil skirt and blouse. So different from the woman who'd dug her nails into my back and whispered "harder" against my ear.

I pull my practice jersey over my head, smiling at the memory. The universe has finally thrown me a bone after all the shit I've been through. Getting traded back to Chicago felt like punishment, but now? Maybe it's exactly where I'm supposed to be.

"What's got you smiling, Barnesy?" Evan Daniels asks as he drops into the stall next to mine. "Didn't think you'd be happy to be back."

"Just thinking about something that happened last night," I say, lacing up my skates.

Evan raises an eyebrow. “Say more.”

I glance around just in time to see several more players file in. “Can’t talk about it right now. Maybe some other time.”

My mind drifts back to Elena—to the way her body responded to mine like we'd been designed specifically to fit together. To the little gasp she made when I first entered her. To the way she looked at me afterward, like she was seeing something in me that nobody else bothered to look for.

It wasn't just great sex. Though fuck, it was great sex. There was something else there—a connection I haven't felt with anyone in a long time. Maybe ever.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. That's dangerous thinking that I don’t have time for. Especially now, when my career is hanging by a thread.

But still.

The way she blushed this morning when I alluded to what happened last night. The way her eyes kept dropping to my mouth. The way her mouth twitched when I leaned forward.

She can say she wants to forget it happened all she wants. Her body tells a different story.

I finish gearing up and head out to the ice for warm-ups, my skates cutting clean lines across the fresh surface.

The eternal smell of the rink—cold air, sweat, rubber—brings me a weird kind of comfort.

This is what I'm here for. Hockey. Not to chase after the coach's daughter, no matter how amazing she felt wrapped around me.

Coach stands at the boards, talking with the assistant coaches, his back to the ice. Just looking at him makes something tighten in my chest. Does he have any idea what his precious daughter was doing last night? What she was saying? How she moaned my name?

If he knew, he'd probably try to kill me. And given our history, he's probably already thinking about it anyway.

Coach and I never got along when I played for him before. He's old school—all about discipline and team first. I'm... not that guy. Never have been. I play my way, live my way. It's worked for me so far.

Well, until it didn't. Until I broke Pearson's arm and got shipped out of New York faster than a puck off a one-timer.

I do a few lazy laps, stretching out my legs, trying to focus on practice. "Get your head in the game," I mutter to myself, pushing off harder, picking up speed.

But my head is very much elsewhere—specifically, back in room 714 of the Palmer House, with Elena's taste still on my tongue.

I wonder if she's thinking about me too. If she's sitting in her office, trying to focus on paperwork while remembering how it felt when I blindfolded her with my t-shirt. When I told her exactly what I was going to do to her and then did it. When I made her come so hard she almost cried.

My stick catches a rut in the ice, nearly sending me sprawling. Fuck. I really do need to focus.

I skate over to the water bottles, squirting some into my mouth, letting the cold liquid clear my head. Several more players have hit the ice now, doing their own warm-ups, pointedly ignoring me. Just like old times.

Coach turns, his eyes finding me immediately, narrowing slightly. I give him a nod, polite but not deferential. He returns it after a beat, then turns back to his conversation.

The whistle blows, calling us to center ice for the start of practice.

I take a deep breath, forcing my mind away from Elena and onto the task at hand.

For the next two hours, I need to be the best damn forward on this team.

I need to remind Coach Martinez why he brought me back, despite his personal feelings about me.

After that, well... I'll figure out how to break down those walls Elena's insistent on building. How to make her admit what we both know—that what happened between us is far from over.

Because I may be playing with fire pursuing the coach's daughter, but I've never been afraid of getting burned.

The first ten minutes of practice is business as usual. But then it’s not.

The first hit comes during a simple passing drill.

A shoulder check that's just a little too hard, a little too targeted to be accidental.

I stay on my feet—barely—and turn to see number twenty-seven skating away, not even looking back.

Message received. The boys don't want me here.

Too bad for them I've never given a shit what anyone wants.

I catch up to twenty-seven at the next turn, casually sliding my stick between his skates. He goes down hard, sprawling across the ice in an ungraceful heap. Teammates stop, staring. I skate past, flashing a smile that contains exactly zero apology.

"Oops," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Guess I forgot how slippery ice can be."

"Fuck you, Barnesy," twenty-seven spits, scrambling back to his feet.

Coach's whistle cuts through the tension. "Again! And keep it clean!"

Practice continues, but the energy has definitely shifted. The ice feels dangerous now, crowded with unspoken hostility. Every player watching me, waiting for me to screw up. It's familiar territory. I've been the villain on every team I've played for. This is just a homecoming.

During scrimmage, I find myself matched against Robinson and the team captain, McCoy—a veteran defenseman who is more intense than I even remembered. McCoy's been with the Blades for over a decade. Old school. Team first. Coach's favorite.

I cut between them, handling the puck with the casual confidence that's always come naturally to me. McCoy lunges, stick extended, but I skate past him, leaving him grabbing at air.

"Too slow, old man," I call over my shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear.

It's a stupid move. Unnecessary. But I can't help myself. This is how I survive—by making sure everyone knows I don't fear them, don't respect their stupid hierarchy.

McCoy catches up to me near the boards and delivers a crushing check that rattles my teeth. My back slams against the plexiglass, knocking the wind from my lungs. Through watering eyes, I see his face inches from mine.

"You haven't changed a bit, Barnesy," he growls. "Still the same selfish prick."

I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile. "And you're still jealous of anyone with actual talent."

He shoves away from me, skating back into position. The scrimmage continues, but now it's personal. Every time I touch the puck, someone's there, hitting harder than necessary, stick-checking more aggressively than the situation calls for.

I give as good as I get. When I score a beautiful top-shelf goal against Evan Daniels, I make a show of celebrating—arms raised, exaggerated fist pump. The message is clear: You can hate me all you want, but you can't deny I make this team better.

Coach watches from the boards, his expression unreadable. When he finally blows the whistle to end practice, his voice echoes across the ice.

"Decent effort. Tomorrow, 7 a.m. Don't be late."

In the locker room, the silence is thick enough to skate on. I strip off my gear, taking my time, making sure to take up more space than necessary. Someone has to break the silence, might as well be me.

"Glad to see you boys have been keeping in shape while I was gone," I announce to the room. "Though judging by today's practice, you could use some scoring lessons. Good thing I'm back."

Twenty-seven slams his locker. "Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I have something worth saying." I flash him a grin. "And I always have something worth saying."

"Yeah? Well nobody's listening." This from a younger player, probably trying to score points with the veterans by standing up to me.

I look around the room slowly, making eye contact with each player in turn. "Funny, you all seem to be listening pretty intently right now."

McCoy approaches, still half in his gear. "Let me make something clear, Barnesy. You're here because we're desperate for goals after Garrison went down. That's it. No one missed you. No one wants you here. You're a last fucking resort."

I stand, towel wrapped around my waist, facing him directly. "And yet here I am. Want to know why? Because I'm better than anyone else you could get. Because no matter what a pain in the ass you all think I am, I win games."