Page 102 of Off-Limits as Puck

“It’s an honest way to put it.”

Stuart shuffles his papers, clearly hoping for something more salacious. “There have been allegations about inappropriate conduct, about you using your position as a player to—”

“Stop.” The word comes out harder than intended, but I don’t soften it. “I know what you’re fishing for. Some story about the troubled athlete taking advantage of the naive therapist. That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

“What happened is two adults made a choice that cost them both everything they’d worked for. What happened is the woman got blamed for seducing me while the man got sympathy for being led astray. What happened is someone brilliant and dedicated and genuinely committed to helping people has been painted as an opportunist by people who never met her.”

“You sound like you’re still in love with her.”

The observation hits like I wasn’t expecting. On national television, with my new team watching, with Chelsea probably watching, with my entire future hanging on how I handle this moment.

“I’m grateful to her,” I say finally. “For seeing something in me worth saving. For teaching me that anger didn’t have to define me. For believing I could be better than my worst moments.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m trying to prove her right.”

The interview continues for another ten minutes—questions about Boston, about my community work, about whether I think I deserve a second chance. But the parts that matter are already done. The truth, messy and complicated and probably career-damaging, is out there.

Afterward, in the green room, my phone explodes with notifications. Twitter mentions, text messages, missed calls from Jerry having seven different kinds of panic attacks.

Jerry:What the fuck was that?

Jerry:Do you know what you just did to your marketability?

Jerry:Call me. NOW.

But there are other messages too. From teammates. From coaches. From people I haven’t heard from in months.

Thompson:Proud of you, man. That took balls.

Weston:About fucking time someone told the truth.

Sophie’s mom:Saw your interview. This is why the kids love you—you’re real.

And then, buried among dozens of notifications, one that makes my chest tight.

Unknown number:Thank you. -C

Just two words and an initial.

She saw it. She heard me tell the truth about us, about her, about what we were and what she meant. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, she reached out.

It’s a new phone number.

I stare at the message until the screen goes dark, then read it again. Two words that feel like forgiveness, like acknowledgment, like the possibility that maybe telling the truth was worth it.

Maybe honesty really is the best policy, even when it burns everything down.

Maybe especially then.

The clip goes viral within hours—not for the scandal, but for the sincerity. Comments praising my honesty, defending Chelsea, calling for more athletes to take responsibility for their actions instead of hiding behind PR speak.

My phone keeps buzzing, but I ignore everything except those two words that mean everything.

Thank you.

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