Page 100 of Off-Limits as Puck

“How do you feel?”

“Like maybe I remember why I became a therapist in the first place.”

“To help kids like these?”

“To help people figure out that breaking doesn’t mean staying broken.”

“Think you might want to do more of this?”

I look around the community center—shabby but functional, serving kids who need advocates more than they need perfect facilities. It’s not the prestigious sports psychology career I planned, but it’s real work with real impact.

“Maybe. If they’ll have me.”

“They’ll have you. Question is whether you’ll have yourself.”

That night, I sit in my beige apartment with a notebook I haven’t touched since Chicago. My handwriting looks foreign, like a skill I’m relearning after injury. But slowly, words come. I write out all my feelings, and it feels freeing.

Tomorrow, I’ll call Frank about volunteering regularly. I’ll research community programs that need psychology consultants. I’ll start building something new from the ashes of what I destroyed.

Tonight, I sit with my notebook and the revolutionary idea that maybe—maybe—I don’t need to earn my way back to who I was.

Maybe I can just become who I’m meant to be.

Even if that person is someone I’m still figuring out.

Even if she’s imperfect and scarred and nothing like the woman I planned to become.

37

“You want to do what?” GM Patterson’s voice climbs an octave, making him sound like he’s been breathing helium instead of managing million-dollar athletes.

“Unscripted interview. Full disclosure. No PR handlers.” I lean back in the conference room chair, watching his face cycle through the five stages of executive panic. “Twenty minutes onSports Center, and I tell the whole story.”

“Absolutely not.” Media Director Cara Wallace slides a folder across the table. “We’ve spent months rebuilding your image. Quiet integration, community work, zero controversy. Why would you torpedo that now?”

“Because hiding isn’t rebuilding. It’s just expensive procrastination.”

Coach Norton studies me with the kind of attention he usually reserves for game tape. “What exactly do you want to say, Hendrix?”

“The truth. About Chicago. About what really happened. Aboutwhom was actually responsible.”

“The truth?” Patterson laughs, but it’s sharp, nervous. “The truth is a luxury we can’t afford. You think admitting to an affair with your therapist helps anyone?”

“I think letting her take the blame alone while I hide behind image consultants makes me a coward.”

The room goes quiet. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the practice rink where I’ve been skating in shadows for months, proving myself to teammates who aren’t sure I won’t implode again.

“She’s not your responsibility anymore,” Cara says carefully. “Whatever guilt you’re carrying—”

“This isn’t about guilt. It’s about accuracy.”

“Accuracy?” Patterson’s control is fraying. “You want to sacrifice months of damage control for accuracy?”

“I want to stop letting people think she seduced me for her own gain. I want to stop letting her father’s reputation overshadow the fact that she’s brilliant at her job. I want to—” I stop, realizing how much I’m revealing. “I want to tell the truth.”

Coach Norton leans forward. “And what is the truth, in your opinion?”

“That Dr. Chelsea Clark is the best sports psychologist I’ve ever worked with. That she helped me become a better player and a better person. That when we crossed professional lines, it was mutual. And that every consequence she’s faced has been worse than anything that happened to me.”

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