Isit in my father's office, a bundle of nerves, though I’m trying to remain composed. The leather chair creaks as I shift, betraying my restlessness. I've rehearsed what I'll say about each player's progress, careful words that reveal just enough without breaching confidentiality. But when it comes to Nate, every prepared sentence feels like a lie, coated in the sticky residue of what we've done. What I've allowed to happen. What I desperately want to happen again.
The door swings open, and Dad strides in with his usual purpose. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ellie." The nickname only emerges when we're alone, a rare acknowledgment that I'm his daughter first, team psychologist second.
"No problem. I was just reviewing my notes." I tap my tablet, the screen displaying session summaries. Professional. Ethical. Everything I haven't been lately.
He settles behind his desk, expression shifting to Coach mode. "So, how are the sessions going? Any concerns I should know about?"
"Overall, the team's responding well." I slide into my clinical voice, grateful for the comfortable rhythm of professionalconversation. "Most players are engaged, taking the exercises seriously."
"And Barnesy?"
I wince imperceptibly at Nate's name. Does Dad notice the slight flush crawling up my neck? The way my fingers tighten around my tablet? "He's... making progress."
Dad leans forward, elbows on his desk. "Define progress."
I swallow, choosing my words carefully. "He's opening up about his past. Making connections between his childhood experiences and his current behavior patterns." Not a lie—Nate had revealed more than I expected in our last session, vulnerability replacing his usual swagger in moments that felt almost painfully intimate. "He's demonstrating self-awareness."
"Self-awareness doesn't mean shit if it doesn't translate to behavior change." Dad's expression hardens. "I need him focused, controlled. No more stupid penalties. No more locker room conflicts."
"That takes time." I'm surprised by my defensive tone. "He's addressing some deep-seated issues."
"We don't have time, Elena." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "We need him at his best. That hat trick last week? That's the player I need him to be. Not the hothead who's been in and out of the penalty box his whole career."
I nod, trying to look neutral. "It looks like his performance has improved recently."
"Just make sure he stays that way." Dad stands, pacing behind his desk. "Barnesy can be manipulative, you know. Charm is his superpower. Gets him out of trouble almost as often as he gets into it."
My throat tightens. Is that what Nate's doing with me? Using charm to manipulate his way through therapy, through my defenses, between my legs? "I'm aware of his reputation."
"Good." Dad nods sharply. "Because I've seen it happen. Trainers, assistant coaches, even refs—they all start out setting clear expectations with him, then suddenly they're making exceptions, looking the other way."
Each word feels like a personal accusation. I force myself to maintain eye contact, keep my breathing even. "I understand my role, Dad. I'm not going soft on him."
The irony of my words burns like acid. I've gone way beyond soft. I've crossed every professional boundary that exists. I've risked my career, my reputation, and my relationship with my father for stolen moments with a man who might be playing me like he plays everyone else.
"I hope not." His voice softens slightly. "I know you're good at what you do, Ellie. That's why I wanted you on the team. But Barnesy..." He shakes his head. "He's got a history of leaving wreckage behind him."
I want to defend Nate, to tell my father about the vulnerability I've glimpsed beneath the arrogance. About the genuine insight he showed in our last session. But sharing any of that would reveal too much, betray both my professional ethics and my personal secrets.
"I'm handling it," I say instead, grateful that my voice sounds steady. "He's responding to the techniques I'm using."
Dad sits back down, studying me. "Good. We need him at his best." He flips open a folder on his desk. "Now, what about Wilson? Still dealing with performance anxiety?"
The conversation shifts to other players, and I find myself responding automatically, grateful for the change of subject. But my mind keeps circling back to Nate, to my father's warnings, to the storm of emotions I can't seem to control.
Fifteen minutes later, as we wrap up, Dad says, "By the way, I'd like you to run a team bonding session in the next few days. Something to build cohesion."
"What did you have in mind?"
He looks up from his notes. "Something informal enough that they don't feel like they're in therapy. We’ve done these before and the guys complained."
"Sure," I nod, already mentally sorting through possible exercises. "Not a problem. I can design something quickly."
"Perfect." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. "And Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Remember what I said about Barnesy. He's playing well right now, and we need that to continue. Whatever you're doing in those sessions, it's working. Just..." He pauses, searching for words. "Don't let him charm you into getting out of doing the work."
