Too late, I think, as I force a smile. "I won't."
Walking back to my office, I feel the weight of what I'm risking settle more heavily on my shoulders. Every step feels like moving through molasses, resistance pushing against my progress. My father's warning echoes in my mind: "He's got a history of leaving wreckage behind him."
Is that what I'll be? Another piece of wreckage in Nate Barnes' wake?
The worst part is that even knowing the danger, even hearing my father's warnings, even understanding exactly what I stand to lose—I still want him. Not just physically, though god knows that pull is strong. I want to hear more about his childhood, understand the man behind the reputation, be the person he trusts enough to break through his walls.
In my office, I close the door and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. My gaze falls on my desk—the memory of his hands, his mouth, his body pressing down on me floods back with such force that I have to close my eyes against it.
This has to stop. I can't keep lying to my father, betraying his trust, risking everything I've worked for.
I arrange chairs in a circle while my mind races. Twenty-three hockey players will file in here any minute, and I need to be poised, professional, and a member of the team who deserves respect. Not the woman who's breaking every ethical rule in the book by sleeping with one of my clients. I check my watch. Ten minutes until the team bonding session starts. Ten minutes to bury my feelings for Nate so deeply that no one will see them.
The conference room door swings open, and players begin to file in. Daniels first, always punctual, followed by the defense pairs who move like synchronized units even off the ice. I smile, greeting each by name, maintaining eye contact.
Nate eventually strolls in last, as usual. His eyes lock onto mine for a fraction too long. His mouth quirks up at one corner. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Good afternoon, everyone." My voice comes out clear and steady as everyone finds a seat. "Today we're focusing on trust and communication—two foundations of effective teamwork."
I explain the exercise: players paired up, one blindfolded, navigating an obstacle course using only their partner's verbal instructions. Simple but effective for highlighting communication styles under pressure.
"Any questions before we begin?" I scan the room.
"Yeah." Nate leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Who gets paired with you, Doc?"
Several players chuckle. I keep my expression neutral. "I'll be observing, not participating."
"That's too bad." He drops his chair back to all fours with a thud. "I bet you give great... instructions."
The innuendo isn't subtle. I blush involuntarily. A few players shift uncomfortably while others try to hide their laughter. I realize far too late that having an exercise involving blindfolds was really stupid, given that Nate blindfolded me the first night we were together. What was I thinking?
"Let's stay focused." I move to distribute blindfolds. "I've already assigned pairs based on who you work with least on the ice."
The exercise begins, and for twenty minutes, the room fills with shouts, laughter, and occasional cursing as players navigate around chairs, bags, and other obstacles. I circulate, notebook in hand, offering observations and suggestions.
When I approach Nate and his partner—a rookie defenseman who looks terrified to be paired with him—Nate dramatically oversteers the blindfolded player.
"Left. No, your other left. Now three baby steps forward. Wait, that's too many!"
The rookie stumbles into a chair.
"That's not helpful communication," I say quietly.
Nate grins. "Not everything needs to be so serious, Doc. You should try loosening up a little."
The comment lands like a slap. Is that how he sees me? Uptight, rigid, someone who needs to "loosen up"?
"Effective communication builds trust," I reply, keeping my voice even. "And trust builds team cohesion."
"You know what else builds cohesion?" He steps closer, voice lowered so only I can hear. "Having some fun once in a while."
Our eyes lock. The air between us feels charged. I step back, breaking the connection.
"Time to switch roles," I announce to the room, turning away from him.
The rest of the session crawls by. I maintain my composure, but inside I'm seething. Every time Nate speaks, every time he laughs too loudly or makes a joke, my anger rises another notch.
When I finally end the session, thanking everyone for their participation, the players file out quickly. I gather my materials slowly, hoping to avoid any one-on-one encounters.
