Page 22 of Risky Pucking Play

"That's excellent progress," I say when he finishes. "How about team integration? Last week, you mentioned feeling like an outsider in the group."

"Better there too." He leans forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Had dinner with some of the guys last night. Turns out they’re not as bad as I thought."

I smile. "Building those connections is important. It?—"

"Though not as important as other connections." His voice drops slightly, eyes flicking briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.

There it is—the shift. The moment when compliant Nate slides into flirtatious Nate. My stomach tightens.

"Nate." There’s a warning in my tone.

"Sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. "You just look really beautiful today. I hope that’s okay for me to say."

"We need to maintain professional boundaries in these sessions." The words sound rehearsed because they are—I've been saying them over and over in my mind since last week’s session.

"I know. I got it." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm trying. But do you have any idea how hard it is to sit here and pretend I don't remember how you taste?"

My cheeks flame. "You can’t say that to me."

"I’m just being honest." His eyes hold mine. "Isn't honesty the point of these sessions?"

"Not that kind of honesty." I tap my pen against the notepad. "We're here to discuss your mental approach to the game, your integration with the team, your?—"

"My mind's a little preoccupied lately." He leans back, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. "Keep thinking about this incredible woman I met. Smart. Gorgeous. Makes these little sounds when?—"

"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "This isn't helpful, Nate."

Something in my face gets to him because his expression changes.

"You're right. I'm sorry." He straightens in his chair, all traces of flirtation vanishing. "That was out of line. It won't happen again."

The whiplash of his words disorients me. What kind of game is he playing? And why do I want to play it with him? Fuck, this can’t happen. I have to stay focused.

I clear my throat. "Let's redirect. We were discussing team dynamics. Have you noticed any particular teammates who might be resistant to you?"

He considers this, then gives a thoughtful analysis of several players' reactions to him. I take notes, grateful for the return to professional ground, though I feel like I’m sweating right through my blouse.

For the next twenty minutes, we discuss his coping strategies for high-pressure games, his history with performance anxiety, and his techniques for handling aggressive opponents. He's insightful and engaged, no trace of the flirtatious man from earlier.

This is another side of Nate Barnes that complicates my feelings—he's actually doing the work. Unlike some athletes who view psychological sessions as punishment, he takes the concepts seriously, applies them, reports back on theireffectiveness. He's showing me he's more than the troublemaker his reputation suggests.

"Our time is almost up," I say, glancing at the clock. "Is there anything specific you want to focus on this week?"

"Maybe some strategies for maintaining focus when there are..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "distractions."

Our eyes meet, and though his words are professional, the undercurrent is clear. I should call him on it, but I don't.

"I can prepare some techniques for that and send them in an email." I close my notebook. "Same time next week?"

He stands, stretching slightly. "Looking forward to it, Doc." His demeanor remains respectful even though he insists on calling me Doc even after I told him I’m not a doctor.

"Nate?" I call when his hand touches the doorknob.

He turns, eyebrows raised in question.

"The visualization techniques—I'm glad they're helping."

A genuine smile crosses his face. "Me too. Thanks for suggesting them."

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