Page 19 of Risky Pucking Play
Islide into the team breakfast five minutes late, my eyes immediately scanning the crowded room. The booming voices of my teammates fade to the background as I search for one face. When I spot her—standing near Coach, tablet pressed to her chest—my cheeks flush involuntarily. Elena.
"Nice of you to join us, Barnesy." Coach's voice cuts across the room, drawing unwanted attention.
"Wouldn't miss it, Coach." Damn it, that man doesn’t miss a thing.
My palms are suddenly damp, my legs are wobbly, like I’ve just finished sprinting. It's ridiculous. I’ve faced down 250-pound defensemen without flinching, but the sight of Elena Martinez has me feeling like a rookie before his first game.
She looks beautiful. Professional in light gray slacks and a black blouse. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, revealing the elegant line of her neck. I want to put my lips on that neck again right this fucking minute.
I grab coffee and some eggs and slide into an empty chair beside Daniels. Elena still hasn't looked at me—not once—though obviously she knows I’m here. The deliberate way sheangles her body away from my side of the room tells me everything.
"What’s up with that shit at practice yesterday?" Daniels mutters, eyeing me over a forkful of eggs.
"Just letting everyone know I’m back."
The goalie snorts. "That’s a hell of a way to do it, man."
“Well, it’s my way.”
Daniels studies my face for a brief moment, shakes his head, and goes back to eating his breakfast.
Around me, my teammates pile their plates with eggs, bacon, and biscuits; their conversations are a mix of talk about another team’s unexpected loss last night and good-natured ribbing. Under normal circumstances, I would be at the center of it, throwing verbal jabs and being a wise ass. Today, I can barely follow the conversation at my own table.
My eyes keep drifting back to her.
She speaks quietly with Coach, nodding at whatever he’s saying. When someone at the coaching table makes a joke, she smiles politely, but it looks forced. Not like when she'd smiled at me at the hotel bar and later after I rocked her world.
Coach Martinez rises from his seat, clearing his throat. The roar of the room quiets down quickly.
"Before we get into game strategy, I want to introduce someone for those of you who don’t know her." He places a hand on Elena's shoulder, and I feel an irrational flare of jealousy before remembering this is her father. "This is my daughter, Elena. She's joined our staff as a sports psychologist."
Elena stands up, her gaze sweeping the room—touching on every face except mine. "Good morning, everyone."
Her voice carries that same sexy lilt that had first caught my attention at the bar, before I’d known who she was. Before I'd known she was off-limits in about seventeen different ways.
"Elena will be conducting individual assessments with each of you over the next few weeks," Coach continues. "This isn't optional, and it isn't punishment. Mental conditioning is as important as physical training, especially as we head into the more challenging part of our season."
“She comes highly qualified, with specialized experience in performance psychology and sports-related stress management."
I watch a subtle flush creep up Elena's neck. She's obviously uncomfortable with the praise. I remember her mentioning imposter syndrome at the bar when referring to her career, her voice lowered as if confessing a secret.
"I'm looking forward to working with all of you," Elena says. Her eyes finally, briefly, meet mine before darting away. "My goal is to help each of you perform at your peak consistently. Everything we discuss will be confidential—with certain exceptions that I'll outline in our first sessions."
She continues explaining her approach, but I lose track of what she’s saying. My focus narrows to all the tiny details: the small crease between her brows as she concentrates, the way her hand moves when she emphasizes a point, the slight rasp in her voice.
Someone kicks my shin under the table. Daniels raises an eyebrow at me. "You planning to stare a hole through her, or you want to hear the lineup changes?"
I blink, realizing Coach has moved on to discussing tomorrow's game. Elena has taken a seat, her attention now on her tablet as she types notes.
"Fuck off," I mutter to Daniels, but then I flash a grin at him.
"Just saying." He shrugs. "You're not exactly being subtle."
Neither was that kick. I rub my shin, forcing my attention back to Coach, who’s outlining defensive pairings with his usual intensity.
Across the room, Elena tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a small gesture that shouldn't send a jolt through my body, but it does. As if sensing my gaze, she glances up. For one unguarded second, her professional mask slips, and I see it—the same intensity I’m feeling right now.
Then she looks away, her fingers tightening around her pen, and the moment is gone.
