Page 104 of Off-Limits as Puck

Like I meant something.

My laptop pings with an email notification. The subject line makes my stomach drop:Regarding Recent Media Coverage.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Regarding Recent Media Coverage

Chelsea,

I watched Hendrix’s interview tonight. I’ve also been contacted by several media outlets requesting comment on his statements regarding your professional conduct.

I want you to know that I will be issuing a statement supporting his assessment of your qualifications and integrity as a mental performance specialist. It’s six months overdue.

Your mother called after watching the interview. She said you get your stubbornness from me, but your courage from her. She’s probably right.

I should have fought harder for you when this began. I chose the team’s reputation over my daughter’s career, and that was wrong. I’m sorry.

If you’re willing, I’d like to talk.

-Dad

I read the email three times, each pass making it more real. An apology from Chris Clark, who apologizes to no one. Anadmission of fault from a man who’s never been wrong about anything in his professional life. An olive branch extended across six months of silence and two thousand miles of geographical punishment.

My hands shake as I close the laptop again. Too much honesty in one night—Reed’s truth, my father’s regret, the growing realization that maybe I don’t have to carry this shame forever.

I pour more tea and sit on my couch, processing the idea that redemption might be possible. Not erasure of what happened, but reframing of what it means. Not going back to who I was but building forward to who I could become.

My phone buzzes again. Unknown number, probably another well-wisher or journalist fishing for quotes.

But when I check, he unsent a message. I see my text.

Thank you. -C

I sent that hours ago, right after the interview aired. A moment of pure instinct, gratitude too big to contain. Now I’m second-guessing everything—the message, the initial, the way it might sound desperate or needy or like I’m reaching across the void between us. What did he send and unsend? My stomach fills with butterflies.

Three dots appear. He’s typing.

Then disappear.

Then appear again.

Reed:You don’t have to thank me for telling the truth.

Me:I do, actually. You didn’t have to do that.

Reed:Yes, I did.

Reed:You took the hit for both of us. That wasn’t fair.

Me:Life’s not fair. We both knew that going in.

Reed:Doesn’t mean I had to let it stay unfair.

The conversation pauses. Two people texting across time zones and consequences, both of us probably staring at our phones wondering what comes next.

Reed:How are you?

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