I nod, unable to form words.
Then he moves, and all coherent thought disappears. There's only sensation—his hands gripping my hips, his mouth on my neck, the building pressure inside me. It's frantic and desperate, both of us racing toward something we shouldn't want but can't resist.
"Look at me," he demands as I feel my orgasm rising, and I force my eyes open, lock onto his. The connection is almost too intense, too intimate.
When I come, I muffle a groan into his shoulder, trying desperately to be quiet. He follows moments later, body tensing, so deep inside me.
We stay like that, tangled together, breathing hard, for a brief moment. Reality seeps back in slowly—the hum of the heating system, the distant sound of a vacuum in the hallway, the uncomfortable edge of the desk beneath me.
Nate pulls back slightly, brushing hair from my face with gentle fingers. The tenderness is somehow even more devastating than the sex.
"What the hell are we doing?" I whisper, the question aimed as much at myself as at him.
He smiles, and brushes his lips against mine softly. "Whatever we want, baby. Who's going to stop us?"
The simplicity of his answer makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. As if it could really be that simple. As if our jobs, our professional relationship, my father—none of it matters.
But in this moment, with his arms still around me, his heartbeat still thundering against my hand, I want to believe him.
Chapter 8
Nate
The puck finds me like it's magnetized to my stick. Everything else fades—the roaring crowd, the blinding lights, my shouting teammates. I’m laser-focused. I know exactly where to be, when to shoot, how to slip past defenders who might as well be standing still. And behind it all, powering every move, is her face. Elena. I'm having the best game of my life tonight, and it's all because of her.
I cut left, leaving a defenseman spinning, then thread a pass through an impossible gap to my winger. He shoots, the goalie saves, but the rebound kicks right to where I'm already skating. One touch and it's in. Goal number two of the night.
My teammates crash into me against the boards, thumping my back and screaming in my ear. I scan the stands, wondering if she's watching. Is she up there somewhere, watching me, remembering how I pressed her against her desk two nights ago?
The thought sends fire through my veins, sharpening my senses even further.
"Barnesy is fucking possessed tonight!" someone on the bench shouts.
I'm not possessed. I'm just finally playing for something that matters.
Third period. The game's tied 3-3. My line jumps over the boards for a shift with five minutes left. The Pittsburgh center wins the face-off, but their winger fumbles the pass. I pounce, stealing the puck and breaking toward their zone with nothing but open ice ahead.
Their defenseman backpedals, trying to take away my angle. I fake a shot, drag the puck between my legs, and then go forehand-backhand so fast that the goalie's still sliding right when I tuck it in on his left.
Hat trick. Hell fucking yes.
The arena erupts. Hats rain down from the stands—a blur of black and red Chicago Blades colors floating onto the ice. The referee delays the game while arena staff clear them away. I skate past our bench, accepting fist bumps and head taps from teammates who couldn't stand me last week.
"What the hell got into you, Barnesy?" McCoy yells over the crowd noise.
I just smile. I can't exactly tell him I'm fucking the coach's daughter and it's turned me into a hockey god.
We hang on to win 4-3. My three goals and Evan Daniels’ forty saves steal the headlines. The locker room buzzes with energy as we strip off sweat-soaked gear.
"The Barnesy Show!" A defenseman I've barely spoken to claps me on the shoulder. "Fucking beautiful, man."
Coach enters, and the look on his usual scowling face tells me even he can't hide his approval tonight.
"That's how you respond to adversity," he says, looking around the room before his eyes land on me. "Barnesy showed us something tonight. That third goal? That's the kind of effort we need in the playoffs."
I smile, acknowledging the rare praise. I search Coach's face for any sign that he knows about me and Elena, but there's nothing—just the grudging respect of a coach who values winning.
"Beers for all you fuckers," McCoy announces. "Miller's Bar in thirty."
