"No official word from the team on Barnes's absence tonight. Coach Martinez simply listed him as unavailable during this morning's press conference."
A sick feeling settles in my stomach.
"That's weird," Reese says. "Any idea what that means?"
I shake my head, though a terrible suspicion is forming. Had my father actually benched Nate because of me? Because of us?
The game begins, and it's immediately clear the Blades are struggling without him. Their offense seems disjointed, passes going astray, scoring opportunities squandered. By the end of the first period, they're down 2-0.
"Man, I don't follow hockey much, but even I can see they're off tonight," Reese comments.
"He's their leading scorer," I say, my thoughts racing.
The camera cuts to my father behind the bench, his face a mask of frustration as he talks intensely with his assistant coaches. I know that look—the tense jaw, the sharp gestures. He's angry, and trying not to show it.
"This is my fault," I whisper.
Reese turns to me, brow furrowed. "What? How could this possibly be your fault?"
“What if he's punishing Nate for what happened between us?"
"That's a pretty big assumption," Reese says cautiously. "There could be a dozen reasons why he's not playing tonight. Maybe he’s injured and they're just not saying."
"Then why not list him as injured? Why 'unavailable'?"
"Hey." Reese grabs my hand. "Stop catastrophizing. You don't know anything for sure. And even if your dad did bench him—which is a big if—there’s nothing you can do about it."
The second period starts, and things go from bad to worse. The Jets score two more goals, and the Blades look increasingly defeated.
I scan the benches, the spaces behind the players where sometimes injured teammates sit to support the team. No sign of Nate anywhere.
"He's not even at the game," I say quietly. "If he were injured, he'd still be there."
Reese doesn't argue this time, just squeezes my hand.
By the third period, it's a complete stomp—6-1 Jets, with the lone Blades goal coming on a fluke deflection. I can barely watch anymore. I know we should turn the game off, but I can’t seem to look away.
"If Nate was playing, this wouldn't be happening," I say, knowing I sound irrational but unable to stop myself. What is wrong with me? I’m a trained psychologist but my brain is on a loop right now that I can’t stop.
"And now Nate's not playing in a crucial game, with no explanation. The team is falling apart without him. My dad's reputation as a coach takes a hit with each loss." My voice breaks. "All because I couldn't keep my hands off him."
"Elena, stop. You're spiraling. This is one game. One night that Nate's not playing. It could be anything—a minor injury they're not disclosing, a disciplinary issue totally unrelated to you, or something else that I can’t think of right now."
I want to believe her. I desperately want to believe this has nothing to do with me, with us.
"Text him," Reese suggests suddenly.
"What?"
"Text Nate. Ask him why he's not playing. Get the facts instead of torturing yourself with theories."
I stare at her, then at my phone sitting on the coffee table. It would be so easy to pick it up, to dial his number, to hear his voice. To know the truth.
But what if my worst fears are confirmed? What if my father really has sidelined him because of what happened?
The final buzzer sounds on the TV. Jets 7, Blades 1. The camera lingers on my father's face as he stalks toward the locker room.
"I can't text him," I say finally. "We agreed to end things. I told him I couldn't risk my career. I need to leave it at that."
