Page 14 of Risky Pucking Play

"Nate," he corrects. "You called me Nate last night. Quite a few times, actually. Especially when you were?—"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," I say, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "These comments are inappropriate and unprofessional."

"You weren't complaining about my mouth being inappropriate last night." His gaze drops to my lips. "In fact, I seem to remember you enjoyed my mouth very much. I still have the scratches on my shoulders to prove it."

My face burns. I sit back down, needing the desk between us as a barrier. "We need to establish ground rules for these sessions."

I grip my pen so tightly I'm afraid it might snap. "Rule number one: no references to personal matters. Rule number two: last night never happened. Rule number three: if you can't maintain appropriate behavior, I will end the session."

"Whatever you say, Doc." He smirks at me.

I try to steer the conversation back to safe territory. "Let's talk about your goals for this season. What do you hope to accomplish with the Blades?"

"Professionally? Score goals. Win games. Stay out of the penalty box." He tilts his head. "Personally? That's more complicated."

I swallow hard. "Mr. Barnes?—"

"What color panties are you wearing today?" he asks suddenly, his voice casual as if he's commenting on the weather. "Loved the pair you had on last night. Though they didn't stay on very long, did they?"

The pen snaps in my hand, ink splattering across my notes. "Session's over," I say, standing again. "We'll try again next week if you can behave professionally."

He rises slowly, unhurried. "Looking forward to it, Doc." His eyes travel over me one last time, lingering in places that makes my skin tingle with memory and unwanted desire.

He slowly walks to the door. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder.

"For what it's worth," he says, his voice unexpectedly sincere, "last night wasn't just sex for me. There was something there. Something real."

Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

I sink back into my chair, my body humming with a confusing mix of anger, embarrassment, and—damn it—arousal. The memory of his hands on me, his body over mine, plays on repeat in my mind.

This is a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And the worst part? Part of me wants it to happen again.

I sit down at my desk, reaching for tissues to clean the ink staining my fingers. The blue blotches look like bruises against my skin, reminders of how quickly I lost control of the situation.

“You have to get it together, girl.”

I open my desk drawer and pull out a new pen, clicking it repeatedly as I try to organize my thoughts. The memory of his parting words echoes in my mind: "It wasn't just sex for me. There was something there. Something real."

Bullshit. That's what athletes do—they charm, they seduce, they make you feel special, and then they move on to the next conquest.

I was sixteen when Dad caught me flirting with one of his rookie players after practice. The boy was barely nineteen, all bright smiles and eager eyes, asking if I wanted to see a moviesometime. Before I could answer, my father appeared between us like a storm cloud.

"Elena, wait in the car." His voice left no room for argument.

Later, during the tense drive home, he delivered a lecture I can still recite from memory. "Hockey players are nothing but trouble, Elena. They live in a bubble—money, fame, women throwing themselves at them. They don't know how to form real connections. To them, everything's a game they can win, including people's hearts."

"He just asked me to a movie, Dad. It's not a marriage proposal."

"It starts with a movie, then suddenly you're just another puck bunny hanging around, hoping to be noticed. You're smarter than that. You're worth more than that."

I'd rolled my eyes then, chalking it up to overprotective dad syndrome. But over the years, I'd seen enough to know there was truth in his words. Athletes lived different lives, operated by different rules.

And now here I am, having crossed the very line my father drew in bright red permanent marker.

I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes until my next appointment. I need to pull myself together.

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