"I'm serious. We need to agree on some basics." I straighten in my chair. "First, complete honesty. Even when it's uncomfortable."
"Agreed."
"Second, we take the physical side slow. We need to build the rest first."
He raises an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Define 'slow.'"
"Nate."
"Okay, okay." He laughs. "Slow it is. Though you should know that's gonna be torture."
"Third," I continue, ignoring what his voice is doing to me, "we commit to working on our own issues. Separately and together."
"I'm already doing that," he says. "But yes, I agree."
"And fourth, we keep it between us for now. Not because we're hiding, but because we need space to figure this out without everyone watching."
He nods. "Whatever you need, Elena. I meant what I said—you set the rules this time."
I study him across the table—this man who's turned my carefully ordered life upside down, who's shown me both incredible pleasure and genuine connection, who's working to be better just as I am. And I realize I want to try, really try, to build something with him.
I slide my hand further across the table, interlacing our fingers completely, and lean forward to whisper: "Let's try again. For real this time."
His eyes darken slightly, and he brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "For real," he echoes, his voice a promise.
The coffee shop continues its morning symphony around us, but I barely notice. In this moment, there's only Nate and me, and the fragile, hopeful thing growing between us—something that feels like it might actually last.
Chapter 21
Nate
The roar of the crowd washes over me as I glide across the ice. Dallas's green jerseys blur against the boards, but I see everything with crystal clarity—the lanes, the angles, the opportunities. A month ago, I would have been scanning for something else: targets, reasons to unleash the anger that always simmered beneath my surface. Tonight feels different.
McCoy wins the face-off, sending the puck skittering toward me along the right boards. I snag it with my stick, banking it off the wall to avoid a crushing check from Dallas's defenseman. The game has barely started, but the intensity is already sky high.
"Barnesy!" Tucker calls from the slot, but he's covered too tightly.
I pivot, protecting the puck with my body, searching for another option. The defenseman lunges again, and I sidestep, feeling the whoosh of air as he misses. An opening appears—a clear lane to the net—and I accelerate, driving toward the goal.
The Dallas goalie drops to his butterfly stance, covering the bottom of the net. I fake a shot, then pull the puck to mybackhand. He bites on the move, sliding right as I tuck the puck into the left corner of the net.
Goal.
The horn blares as my teammates crash into me against the boards. McCoy slaps my helmet, yelling something I can't hear over the crowd's roar. It's only five minutes into the first period, but drawing first blood sets the tone.
"Sick move, Barnesy," Tucker says as we skate back to the bench, bumping my glove with his.
Coach Martinez nods at me. "Well done," he says as I step over the boards.
I settle on the bench, gulping water, already thinking about my next shift. Dallas has a reputation for getting chippy when they're trailing, and I'm typically their favorite target. Especially Brenner—their alternate captain with the perpetual scowl and penchant for dirty hits after the whistle.
Sure enough, my next shift brings Brenner gliding past our bench, muttering something about "pretty boy Barnes" and making a show of spitting on the ice. The old me would have immediately locked in on him, looking for the first opportunity to drop gloves. The new me watches him, acknowledging the bait without taking it.
The first period ends with us up 1-0. The locker room buzzes with energy during intermission, guys making minor equipment adjustments and hydrating.
"They're keying in on you, Barnes," Coach says during his brief address. "Use that."
I nod, tightening my skate laces. The message is clear—draw them in, create space for teammates. Play smart, not angry.
