"It doesn't complicate anything," I counter, "because nothing happened. Nothing will happen. We are going to forget about last night and proceed as therapist and client. And if you can't do that, I'll recommend you be assigned to another psychologist, though that will raise questions neither of us wants to answer."
He studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. I can almost see the thoughts running behind those intense eyes. Then his posture changes, shoulders relaxing as he settles deeper into the chair.
"Alright, Doc. Your rules." His smile returns, somehow both compliant and challenging at once.
"I’m not a doctor. You can just call me Elena. Or Miss Martinez.”
He nods, eyeing me with curiosity. "So what does this mandatory counseling entail? Going to make me talk about my childhood traumas? My relationship with my parents? Why I can't stop myself from punching goalies?"
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Maybe this can work after all. I open his file, focusing on the professional task at hand.
“These sessions are meant to help you integrate with the team and address any issues that might affect your performance or behavior." I keep my tone neutral, clinical. "Given your history, the management wants to ensure you have the support you need to succeed here in Chicago."
"My history." Nate repeats the words with a slight edge. "You mean the fact that I broke Pearson's arm and got kicked off the team?"
"Among other incidents, yes." I flip through his file, noting multiple disciplinary actions across his career. "There seems to be a pattern of conflicts with teammates and management."
"He deserved it," Nate says, his voice suddenly harder. "Pearson, I mean."
"Violence is rarely the answer to?—"
"He came at me," Nate interrupts. "On the ice. Gloves dropped. You fight or you look weak. That's hockey."
"I understand the culture," I say. "But breaking someone's arm goes beyond the usual hockey fight."
He shrugs, a gesture somehow both dismissive and defensive. "He threw the first punch. I had to defend myself."
I make a note in his file, aware of his eyes following the movement of my pen. "And the reason for the altercation?"
A beat of silence. "Personal matters."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Not particularly." His eyes meet mine, challenging. "Unless you want to elaborate on what you like in bed. Seemed like you enjoyed it when I?—"
"That's inappropriate," I cut him off, my face flushing. "And completely irrelevant to this session."
"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 veryspecific 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?—"
