"Barnesy!" Coach barks. "You with us?"
"Yes, Coach." The words come automatically.
"Great. Then you won't mind telling us what you plan to do differently against Winnipeg's forecheck tomorrow night?"
I bullshit my way through a response about gap control and neutral zone traps. It's enough to satisfy him, and he moves on to rip into someone else.
The team meeting drones on, and Coach’s voice fades to white noise as I study Elena's face. There is a slight furrow in her brow as she concentrates. The way she occasionally glances up to absorb the room's dynamics before returning to her notes. She's not just present—she's analyzing, cataloging, already working. This job obviously truly matters to her. It’s not just work—it’s her identity.
"Any questions before we wrap up?" Coach asks.
The room remains silent. No one wants to prolong the breakfast meetings.
"Elana’s schedule will be posted by tomorrow morning. First sessions start this week," Coach says.
Elena stands, smoothing her slacks with one hand. "I’ll email you all access to my calendar," she says. Her voice carries that perfect balance of authority and approachability. Not easy to do for a twenty-something-year-old.
My mind flashes back to the bar. To her laugh, unguarded and rich. To the way she flirted, completely unguarded. To theway she'd looked at me later in that dimly lit hallway, desire overriding caution.
I'd pursued her then like I pursue everything—directly, confidently, and with the assumption that charm and persistence would win out. It's a strategy that's rarely failed me, on or off the ice.
But now...
Now I see the way Coach looks at her—with pride edged by protectiveness. The way her shoulders square slightly when she addresses the players.
This isn't just her job. It's her reputation. Her career. Her relationship with her father.
"Hey, dude," Daniels waves a hand in front of my face. "Meeting's over."
I snap to. The room has started to empty, players drifting toward the doors to grab gear before heading to the rink. Elena stands by the door, shaking hands with senior staff members.
"Yeah. Right." I stand, draining my now-cold coffee.
"You know," Daniels says, lowering his voice, "whatever you're thinking about the new psychologist—don't."
My head snaps toward him. "What?"
Daniels gives me a knowing look. "I've seen that expression before. Usually right before you do something monumentally stupid that lands you in trouble."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure." Daniels shrugs. "Just remember—that's Coach's daughter. And our shrink. Double off-limits."
I watch as a defenseman stops to introduce himself to Elena. The guy's standing too close, his smile too wide. Elena maintains her professional demeanor, but I catch the subtle shift of her weight, creating distance without being obvious about it.
A surprising surge of protectiveness rises in me. I recognize the look in the defenseman's eyes—I’ve seen it in my ownreflection enough times. The predatory focus of a man who is used to getting what he wants.
"I'm not an idiot," I finally respond to Daniels.
"Your trade history suggests otherwise."
The words sting because they're true. Three teams in five years. Each departure was marked by some variation of "anger management issues".
That can’t happen again.
I move toward the door, joining the stream of players heading to the elevators. Ahead, Elena stands with her father, waiting. When the elevator arrives, I hang back, letting others push forward. I get on but end up pushed into the back corner.
Elena stands near the doors, her back to me. The scent of her perfume—subtle, clean—reaches my nostrils. It’s the same scent she was wearing the night I met her.
