Chapter 11
Elena
My alarm pierces the silence, dragging me from a fitful sleep. I reach for my phone and turn it off.
I was really hoping to get a run in this morning, but when I was still awake at midnight last night, I decided to set the alarm for a later time and skip the run.
I continue to lie in bed for a minute, checking my texts. No messages from Nate. I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, which tells me everything I need to know about how deep I'm in with this mess.
The memory of last night's text from the hotel front desk flashes through my mind: "Ms. Martinez, there's a gentleman waiting outside your room. Would you like us to assist?" I had replied: “No thanks. Everything is fine.” I couldn’t very well tell them I was hiding in my room, trying to avoid the man I can't stop thinking about. And that if I let him in, I’ll certainly sleep with him yet again.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I head into the bathroom for a shower. Even though I don’t really have the time, I use all my favorite products including the full body exfoliator. I’m hopeful a little self-care will relax me.
I finally get out and steam fogs the mirror as I mechanically move through my morning routine. Concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Mascara. Blush. Armor against the day ahead.
"You can't keep doing this," I tell my reflection. "You can't keep sleeping with him."
The words hang in the air, ugly and undeniable. Nate is my client. Not my lover. Not my boyfriend. My client. A man whose mind I'm supposed to help untangle, not whose body I'm supposed to enjoy.
I drag a brush through my hair, pulling at the tangles with unnecessary force. How did I get here? I've never even been tempted to do anything like this before. I've spent years earning respect in a field dominated by men twice my age. And for what? To throw it all away for a bad boy hockey player?
But he's not just that, whispers a voice in my head. You've seen the real Nate Barnes now. The vulnerability behind the swagger. The pain behind the smirk.
And that's the problem, isn't it? I haven't just crossed a physical boundary. I've crossed an emotional one, too. I care about him in a way that makes objectivity impossible.
I slip into a burgundy sweater dress and black suede boots, trying to get psyched up for a day I'm dreading. My hands shake slightly as I fasten tiny gold hoop earrings. What am I going to do? I can't treat him anymore. Not after yesterday. Not after he laid his soul bare about his brother, about the fire. Not after I walked out during our session when he pushed my buttons. Not after he came to my hotel room begging for forgiveness.
The ethical thing would be to ask to be reassigned. To tell my father I can't continue treating Nate.
My stomach clenches at the thought. Dad will want answers. Explanations. He already warned me about Nate's manipulative charm. What would he think if he knew I've fallen for himcompletely? That I've done far more than fall for him—I've invited it into my bed and between my legs?
He’d be shocked and disappointed. And he'd have every right to be.
I pour coffee into a travel mug, the rich aroma failing to provide its usual comfort. I add more cream than I normally allow myself, trying to bring some happiness into my day.
The right thing to do is clear. I need to remove myself from Nate's treatment. But the consequences of that action won’t be easy to deal with.
I take a big gulp of too-hot coffee and wince. I have two choices: confess everything and deal with the fallout, or find a way to work professionally with Nate going forward. No more talk about sex during our sessions. No more lingering looks. No more heated encounters in parked cars.
Can I do that? Can I sit across from him, knowing what I know, feeling what I feel, and maintain detachment?
I grab my keys and bag, shutting the hotel door behind me. The morning is gray, matching my mood as I walk to my car.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel before starting the car. "You can do this," I whisper to myself. "You have to."
But as I drive toward the training facility, I can't stop the wave of longing that washes over me. Not just for Nate's body, though god knows I crave that. But for his smile. His laugh. The spark in his eyes when he banters with me. The vulnerability he showed me when he talked about his brother.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts. This ends now. It has to.
After my 9 a.m. session with McCoy, I head to the ladies’ room. I’m in a stall peeing and scanning social media when I hear two voices I don’t recognize.
"Have you seen the way Barnesy looks at her?" voice one asks, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's like he's mentally undressing her every time she walks by."
I freeze. They can't be talking about?—
"Elena Martinez?" voice two snorts. "Please. She's Coach's daughter. Besides, she's too uptight for someone like Barnesy."
My stomach drops to my feet. They're talking about me. About us. I’m completely silent now, waiting to hear more.
