Page 39 of Risky Pucking Play
"Shit." She sighs. "Okay, damage control time. You need to end it immediately. No more sessions with him. No more... desk activities. And you need to request reassignment from his case."
"I can't. Dad would want to know why."
"So lie. Say you don't think you're making progress with him. Say he reminds you of an ex. Say anything but you’ve got to get out of this."
"He'll see through it. He already warned me about Nate's charm, told me not to fall for it."
"And yet here we are." The gentle teasing in her voice takes the sting out of the words. "Seriously, Elena. You need to fix this before it blows up in your face. Your entire career could be over if the wrong person finds out."
"I know." The weight of it all presses down on me. "I'll figure something out."
A brief silence falls between us. Then Reese asks the question I've been avoiding: "Is it worth it? Whatever this is with him—is it worth risking everything you've built?"
The question hits me hard. Is it worth it? The crazy passion. The way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world. The vulnerability in his eyes when he told me about his brother. The feeling of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine.
"I don't know," I whisper. The truth of it settles in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. "But I can't lose my job."
I say the words with as much conviction as I can muster, needing to hear them out loud, needing to believe them. Because the alternative is too frightening to contemplate—that I might actually be willing to risk everything for a man who, by his own admission, doesn't know how to let people get close without pushing them away.
A man who, despite everything, has somehow gotten closer to me than anyone has in years.
Chapter 12
Nate
The puck skitters across the ice. The crowd's roar fades to white noise as I intercept a pass, my muscles responding with practiced precision. But even as my body moves through the practiced movements of the game, my mind keeps circling back to one thought: Elena isn't here tonight.
I’ve checked the team box three times already, searching for her beautiful face among the others. But she's not there.
I skate harder, pushing the thought away.
Focus on the game. Focus on what you can control.
Dallas is playing particularly dirty tonight. Their defensemen are taking liberties, throwing elbows, and muttering taunts. I feel the usual anger rising in me, but force it down. I can't afford another penalty. Can't give Coach another reason to bench me.
I glide past the Dallas bench during a line change, catching snippets of their chatter.
"Fucking rookies," one of them spits. "Number 47's fair game."
Number 47 is Tucker, a nineteen-year-old kid in his first NHL season. Small but fast, with hands that can thread the puck through impossible spaces.
Play resumes. I watch more carefully now, noticing how the Stars' bruiser—Anderson, a six-foot-four enforcer with a reputation for destruction—keeps targeting Tucker. A stick to the ribs here. A shoulder that's just a bit too high there. Nothing blatant enough for the refs to call, but a clear message: we're coming for you, kid.
The second period winds down. The score remains tied 2-2, though the Blades are controlling the pace. Tucker cuts across the blue line with the puck, slipping past one defender with a slick move.
I see Anderson coming before Tucker does. The big man launches himself horizontally, aiming not for the puck but for Tucker's head.
I change direction, skating furiously toward them.
Too late. Anderson connects, his elbow driving into Tucker's jaw. The rookie crumples, helmet flying off, body folding like an accordion as he hits the ice.
Something snaps inside me. The rational part of my brain—the part that's been trying so hard to stay in control, to be the player Coach wants, the player Elena would be proud of—goes silent. In its place, pure protective rage comes out.
I reach Anderson before the refs can intervene. My gloves hit the ice first, followed by my helmet. I grab the larger man by the jersey, yanking him around.
"You want to take cheap shots?" I growl. "You fucking asshole."
Anderson grins, yellowing mouthguard visible. "Barnesy. Been waiting for this."
