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"You're also the reason we lost in the conference finals three years ago. Or did you forget that penalty in OT?"

The jab lands hard. That penalty—a stupid, impulsive cross-check that cost us the game and the series—was my last act as a Blade before being traded. It's still a sore spot.

"Ancient history," I say, though my jaw tightens involuntarily. "I've won a lot more games than I've lost."

"For yourself, maybe." McCoy's voice drips with disgust. "Never for the team."

I step closer, anger flaring hot. "You want to see what I can do for this team? Watch me this season. I'll carry your sorry asses to the playoffs singlehandedly if I have to."

"That's exactly the problem," a gruff voice cuts in from the doorway. Coach stands there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "You think you're carrying everyone else. That it's you against the world."

The room falls silent. Even I know to shut up when Coach starts speaking.

"Barnesy." He jerks his head toward his office. "A word."

I follow him down the corridor, acutely aware of the muffled laughter behind me. Coach's office is spartan—no personal photos, just hockey memorabilia and stacks of game footage. He doesn't sit, just turns to face me, leaning against his desk.

"I didn't bring you back so you could start a war in my locker room," he says, voice low and controlled. "I brought you back because you can score and we need goals. That's it. I don't care about your ego, your reputation, or your mouth. I care about winning. As a team."

"That makes two of us," I reply, struggling to keep my tone neutral.

"Does it?" His eyes bore into mine. "Because from where I'm standing, you care more about proving you're better than everyone else than you do about winning as a team."

I force myself to hold his gaze. "I play to win. Always have."

"There's no 'I' in team, Barnesy."

"No, but there is an 'I' in win," I counter before I can stop myself.

His face hardens. "This is your last chance. Not just with the Blades, but in the NHL. No one else will take you if we drop you. So decide what matters more—your pride or your career."

The irony isn't lost on me. Here he is, lecturing me about my last chance, while I'm thinking about his daughter's legs wrapped around my waist. If he knew what Elena and I did last night, he wouldn't be offering warnings—he'd be trying to break my neck.

"Understood, Coach," I say, swallowing the laugh that threatens to bubble up.

"I mean it. Cut this shit out or you're done."

I nod, appropriately solemn. "Is that all?" I ask, keeping my face neutral.

He studies me for a long moment, as if trying to read my thoughts. Thank god he can't.

"For now," he finally says.

Later that evening I get a text from Daniels: "Team breakfast tomorrow, 6 a.m. Don't be late."

Team breakfast. Another opportunity to sit in uncomfortable silence with guys who hate me while we all pretend we're one big happy hockey family. Can't wait.

But Elena might be there. The thought hits me suddenly. Team functions often include staff. And she's staff.

The prospect of seeing her again sends a jolt through me—like a perfect pass connecting with my stick, the puck exactly where it needs to be. That moment of rightness, of possibility.

I know I should leave it alone. Let her maintain her professional distance. Find someone else to warm my bed and clear my head. Save my career by staying as far away from Coach Martinez's daughter as possible.

But that's not who I am. I've never walked away from a challenge, never backed down when the odds were against me. It's what makes me a good hockey player and a terrible human being, according to most of my exes.

And there's something else, something I barely want to admit even to myself: I liked talking to her. Not just the sex—though fuck, the sex was incredible—but the conversation. The way her mind works. The glimpses of her I got between kisses and touches.

I want to know more. I want to peel back those layers, see what's underneath all that professional composure. I want to hear her laugh again, see her smile, watch her face when she comes apart in my arms.

I'm going to get under Elena’s skin the way she's gotten under mine. And not just in her office, with her clipboard and her professional distance, but in her bed, with her walls down and her body wrapped around mine.

I've never been good at denying myself things I want. Never seen the point in restraint or moderation. Maybe that's why I'm on my third team in five years. Maybe that's why I don't have any real friends anymore, just teammates who tolerate me and women who warm my bed for a night.

The decision should make me anxious—it's reckless, impulsive, potentially career-ending. But instead, I feel calmer than I have all day. Like I've been fighting against a current and finally decided to let it carry me.

I set my alarm for 5:30 AM and head to bed. Tomorrow is team breakfast. Tomorrow I see Elena again. Tomorrow I start figuring out how to make her admit what I already know—that whatever this is between us, it's far from over.

Sleep comes easily, my mind filled with plans instead of restless questions. Coach Martinez thinks I'm on my last chance in the NHL. He has no idea how right he is. And no idea that I'm about to risk it all for his daughter.