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.
Chapter 4
Elena
The 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.
