Page 57 of Risky Pucking Play

This is killing me.

I think about you all the time.

In the end, I set the phone down without responding. What's the point? There's no path forward for us, no happy ending. All texting would do is prolong the pain, keep hope alive when there’s no point.

An hour later, I stumble through my front door, sweat-soaked and breathless. Six miles. I've never pushed myself that far before, but today I needed the mindless rhythm of feet hitting pavement until my thoughts quieted to nothing but the next breath, the next step.

I glance at myself in the entryway mirror. My hair is a disaster of dark strands escaped from my ponytail, my face flushed an unattractive shade of red. I peel off my running shoes and socks, leaving them on the floor.

My legs are shaky as I make my way to the kitchen and gulp water straight from the tap, too impatient for a glass.

Running didn't help as much as I'd hoped. For brief stretches, my mind went blank, focused only on the burn in my lungs and the ache in my legs. But every time I stopped at a traffic light or slowed to navigate a crowded sidewalk, thoughts of Nate rushed back in. His text. His smile. His hands. The knowledge that I could respond to his message and be in his arms within an hour.

I head toward the bathroom, stripping off my sweat-drenched clothes as soon as I get there. The hot shower stings my overheated skin, but I stand under the spray until my muscles begin to unknot.

Clean and wrapped in a towel, I move to my bedroom and pull my weekender bag from the closet. Before I went for my run, I sent Reese a quick text telling her how shitty I feel and she insisted we get out of town together this weekend. She said my mental health required a girls’ weekend and I had to agree. I need a change of scenery, out of Chicago, away from the Blades, far from Nate Barnes.

I start pulling clothes from drawers, making neat piles on my bed. Jeans. T-shirts. Sweaters. Lake Geneva in fall can be unpredictable, but Reese's family cabin is always cozy regardless of weather. We've been going there since college, and it holds so many happy and fun memories.

My phone rings and Reese's name flashes on the screen. I tap the speaker button while continuing to fold clothes.

"Please tell me you're actually packing and not just thinking about packing," she says instead of hello like a normal person.

"Hello to you too, girl," I reply. "And yes, I'm actually packing. You said we’re going, so we’re going."

"Hallelujah. I was worried you'd bail on me." There's a shuffling sound on her end. "I'm bringing enough wine to stock a small liquor store, just FYI. And chocolate. And those cheese straws you're obsessed with."

"You're the best." I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude for this friendship that has weathered every storm. "Seriously, Reesey. Thank you for doing this."

"Hey, don't get all sappy on me." Her tone softens. "That's what I'm here for. Wine, cheese straws, and helping you forget about sexy hockey players who can ruin your life."

I wince. "You make it sound so dramatic."

"Uh, it is dramatic. This is literally a soap opera plot. 'Psychologist falls for forbidden client, story at eleven.'" She pauses. "Speaking of which, any updates on the photo situation?"

"Dad says the press still hasn't identified me. Just lots of speculation." I fold a pair of jeans and put them in the pile. "He put me on leave for a week."

"Shit." Reese's voice drops. "I’m guessing that’s not good."

"It’s definitely not great." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "He says he's worried about me."

"Well, I mean, that's good, right? That he's concerned instead of angry?"

"I guess." I stand, moving to my closet for a jacket. "But it feels like punishment. Like I'm being sent to my room to think about what I've done."

"Or maybe he really is just giving you space to figure things out." Reese's voice turns gentle. "You have been a mess, El. I mean, you know I love you, but objectively speaking? Total disaster zone."

I laugh despite myself. "Thanks a lot."

"Just speaking truth. So, I'll pick you up at 7?"

"Yeah." I glance at the clock. Almost 5 now. "I'll be ready."

We hang up and I continue packing, moving through my still-unfamiliar apartment gathering toiletries, a book I probably won't read, running shoes I probably won't use. As I zip the bag closed, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair still damp from the shower, no makeup, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

I barely recognize myself. The woman staring back at me looks uncertain in a way that scares me. I've always known exactly who I am and what I want. Driven. Focused. In control.

But Nate Barnes walked into my life and upended everything I thought I knew about myself. He showed me a side of myself I didn't know existed—a woman capable of recklessness, of putting desire above duty, of risking everything.

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