Page 27 of Risky Pucking Play

At home, I move through my empty apartment, turning on lights, dropping my keys on the counter. I flop onto my couch and close my eyes, picturing Elena's face—not during sex, but during our session, when she listened to me with complete focus, like what I was saying actually mattered. No one's ever looked at me like that before.

Sleep finds me there on the couch, still in my clothes, dreaming of dark eyes and forbidden touch and something that feels dangerously like hope.

A few days later, I’m back in her office for another session. As soon as I walk in the door, my mind goes to our night here a week ago. One look at the desk and all I can see is her naked on it, looking up at me with those big, beautiful eyes. I get half-hard just thinking about it.

She sits across from me in a high-necked blouse buttoned to her throat, her expression carefully neutral. If I didn't know better—if I hadn't heard the sounds she made when I was inside her—I'd never guess what happens when we're alone. She's good at this game.

"Congratulations on your hat trick," she says, pen poised over her notepad. "That must have felt good."

"It did." I lean back in my chair. "Though not as good as I felt the other night."

A slight tightening around her mouth is the only indication that my words affect her. "Let's keep this professional, Nate."

"That's what we're doing." I smile, trying to look innocent. "Talking about my performance. Isn't that why I'm here?"

She sighs, but there's a hint of amusement behind her exasperation. "How did you feel about the team's reaction to your performance?"

I consider this seriously. "Different. Usually, when I score, it's all about me. This time it felt more... connected."

"Connected," she repeats, writing something down. "Interesting word. Can you elaborate?"

"I wasn't just scoring for myself. I was part of something bigger." I pause, surprised by my own honesty. "It's not a feeling I'm used to."

Her eyes soften slightly. "Why do you think that is?"

The question dangles between us. I could deflect, make another flirty comment, keep things surface-level. But something about her steady gaze makes me want to dig deeper.

"I never really belonged anywhere growing up." The words come out before I can filter them. "Team sports were supposed to fix that, but I always felt like an outsider."

She leans forward slightly. "Tell me more about your childhood. We haven't discussed that much yet."

My chest tightens. This wasn't part of the plan. I came here to flirt, to continue this thrilling game between us. Not to crack myself wide open.

"Not much to tell." I shrug. "Poor kid from a rough neighborhood. Hockey was my ticket out."

"And your parents?" Her voice is gentle, coaxing.

I stare at a point just past her shoulder. "Dad worked construction when he could get it. Mom cleaned houses, waitressed, whatever paid the bills. They weren't around much."

"That must have been difficult."

"It was what it was. I took care of myself. Learned to cook because otherwise I wouldn't eat. Learned to do laundry because no one else was doing it. Learned to forge my mom's signature on school forms."

She doesn't say anything, just waits. The silence stretches between us until I feel like I’ve got to fill it.

"The worst part wasn't being alone." My voice drops lower. "It was feeling like a burden when they were around. Like every dollar they spent on me was one more worry line on my mom's face. Every hockey stick, every pair of skates—I could see them calculating how many extra shifts they'd need."

"That's a heavy weight for a kid to carry."

"Yeah, well." I attempt a smile. "Made me tough, right? Perfect hockey mentality."

Elena sets her pen down, folding her hands in her lap. "Did you ever feel angry about your situation?"

The question hits a nerve. "What was there to be angry about? At least they kept a roof over my head. Some kids had it worse."

"That doesn't invalidate what you feel though, Nate."

Something hot and uncomfortable rises in my chest. "What do you want me to say? That I'm pissed they missed every game? That I hate that my mom was too tired to ask about my day? That when I got my first NHL contract, my dad's first question was about how much money I could send home."

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