"Hey, Elena. You okay? You look a little pale."
I force a smile. "I'm fine, Jimmy. Come in."
For the next hour, I focus entirely on his anxiety about an upcoming start. I nod along, ask all the right questions, and suggest the visualization techniques that might help. I’m the perfect sports psychologist, while inside, a storm rages.
After he leaves, I check my phone again and there’s another text from Nate.
"Dinner tonight? My place or yours?"
The casual normalcy of his messages makes me want to scream. How can he act so normal when there's another woman in the picture? Is this just how he operates—multiple women, and nobody’s the wiser?
I stare at the texts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to confront him, demand explanations. Part of me wants to pretend I never saw the photo, to preserve the bubble of happiness I've been living in.
But I can't unsee it. Can't unfeel this cold knot of doubt settling in my stomach.
"Busy tonight," I type, then delete.
"Not feeling well," I try again. Not really a lie but definitely cowardly.
"Saw your photo with the blonde. Who is she?" Too direct, too accusatory.
In the end, I put the phone down without responding. I need time to think. To decide if this relationship is worth fighting for, or if I've been fooling myself all along.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of sessions and paperwork. By the time I leave the facility, my phone shows five unanswered texts from Nate, each one more concerned than the last.
The final one reads: "Elena, is everything okay? I'm getting worried."
I slide into my car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Everything is not okay. Not even close.
The image of Nate and the blonde woman plays on repeat in my mind, a taunting reminder that some things—some people—don't change. Not really. Not when it counts.
I start the car, vision blurring with unshed tears. The question that haunts me isn't who she is or what they were doing.
It's why I ever believed I could be enough for Nate Barnes in the first place.
Chapter 23
Nate
Icheck my phone for a text from Elena for the twentieth time in the past hour. Five texts sent, zero received. This isn't like her at all. Even on her busiest days with the Steel, she finds thirty seconds to send something—an emoji, a quick 'swamped, talk later'—something to let me know that she’s okay. The silence feels more uncomfortable with every passing minute.
I look out over the panoramic view of Chicago that normally calms me but my anxiety keeps growing. Something's wrong. It has to be.
I woke up feeling great this morning after we demolished the Senators last night. I had a goal and three assists. Coach even gave me a curt nod in the locker room afterward—the closest thing to approval I've gotten from him since Elena and I started seeing each other again.
Now it's after five, and the worry has morphed into something darker. I scroll through our recent text history, looking for clues. Had I said something inappropriate? Done something to piss her off? Our last conversation had been perfectly normal—planning to meet up tonight, her telling me about a breakthrough with one of the Steel's pitchers.
My mind cycles through worst-case scenarios. Car accident. Family emergency. Her father somehow forcing her to cut contact with me. Fuck… I hate not knowing what’s going on.
I grab my keys, thinking seriously about driving to her place, when my phone finally vibrates. Elena's name appears on the screen, and relief floods through me.
Then I open the message.
It's not text. It's an image. The thumbnail loads, and I recognize myself immediately—standing in a hotel lobby in a suit. With Melissa's hand on my arm, her face tilted up toward mine, that practiced smile she always wore for cameras.
My stomach drops. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I know exactly when and where this was taken—The Drake, during a charity event for youth hockey programs. Melissa was my date, one of a string of meaningless hookups that filled the emptiness between games and cities.
