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."
