Page 106 of Off-Limits as Puck

That’s who you are. Phoenix doesn’t change that.

I think he might be right.

39

Flying two thousand miles to watch someone from the parking lot is either romantic gesture or restraining order territory, and I’m honestly not sure which.

The Phoenix Community Center sits in a strip mall between a Dollar Tree and a place that advertises “Tax Prep & Tacos,” which sounds like the most Arizona combination possible. I’m leaning against my rental car in ninety-degree heat that makes Boston feel like the Arctic, watching through floor-to-ceiling windows as Chelsea commands a room full of teenagers who look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else.

She’s wearing jeans and a Suns t-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than the polished professional I remember. No blazer armor, no carefully constructed Dr. Clark persona. Just Chelsea, animated and passionate, gesturing with her whole body as she makes some point about resilience that has a kid in the front row nodding likeshe’s revealing the secrets of the universe.

I’ve been here twenty minutes, and she hasn’t noticed me. Good. This isn’t about her seeing me—it’s about me seeing her happy. Proof that the life she built from our ashes is worth something. That maybe telling the truth was the right choice, even if it cost me everything.

“You gonna stand there all day looking creepy, or you gonna go in?”

I turn to find an old man in Suns shorts and a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” shirt studying me with the kind of direct assessment that comes from decades of dealing with bullshit.

“Just watching,” I say.

“That’s what makes it creepy.” He extends a hand. “Frank Morales. And you’re Reed Hendrix, unless there’s another six-foot-three white boy lurking around community centers looking at Dr. Clark like she hung the moon.”

Shit. “How did you—”

“Kid, I’ve been coaching teenage athletes for forty years. You think I don’t recognize that particular brand of pining?” He grins. “Plus, your face was all over ESPN for months. You’re not exactly incognito.”

“I’m not stalking her.”

“Didn’t say you were. But standing in a parking lot watching someone through windows hits about a seven on the restraining order scale.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“I figured. Chelsea’s not exactly subtle when she’s surprised. Girl wears every emotion on her sleeve.” Frank studies the community center, then me. “So what’s the plan? Keep watching her through glass like some sad zoo exhibit?”

“I don’t have a plan. I’m supposed to be in Boston. Team thinks I’m visiting my brother in Vegas.”

“But you’re here.”

“But I’m here.”

“Why?”

The question I’ve been avoiding since I booked this flight on impulse after seeing her text. Why am I here? What did I think would happen? That I’d see her from across a parking lot and suddenly know how to fix everything we broke?

“Wanted to see if she was okay,” I admit. “After the interview. After everything.”

“And?”

I watch Chelsea laugh at something a kid says, her whole face lighting up with genuine joy. She looks... settled. Not happy exactly, but content in a way she never looked in Chicago. Like someone who’s figured out how to want what she has instead of mourning what she lost.

“She’s better than okay,” I say.

“Yep. Took her a while to get there, but she found her footing.” Frank pauses. “Question is, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. This isn’t about me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

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