Page 111 of Off-Limits as Puck

My phone buzzes, which shouldn’t make my pulse race but absolutely does.

Reed:Just landed at my layover. Thanks for accepting the flowers.

That’s it?

Relief and disappointment war in my chest, both equally irrational. Of course he left. What did I expect? Some grand romantic gesture where he sweeps me off my feet and we pretend the last six months didn’t happen? That careers can be rebuilt, and trust can be restored with flowers and good intentions?

Outside my window, Phoenix spreads under desert stars, two thousand miles from snow and hockey rinks and the man who apparently still knows exactly how to find my pressure points.

I should be angry. Should resent him for showing up unannounced, for disrupting my peace, for leaving flowers that smell like memory and regret. Instead, I’m just tired. Tired of pretending I don’t miss him. Tired of building walls that apparently crumble at the first sign of his presence. Tired of choosing safety over everything else.

The sunflowers watch me from their improvised vase, bright and stubborn in my beige apartment. I should throw them away. Should delete his number, block any possible communication, return to the slow work of forgetting someone who refuses to stay forgotten.

Instead, I carry them to my bedroom and set them on the nightstand where I’ll see them first thing in the morning. Evidence that Reed Hendrix was here, in my space, thinking about me. Proof that whatever we were or could have been still matters enough for two-thousand-mile gestures.

That night, I dream of him. Not the dramatic Vegas version or the angry Chicago version, but just Reed. Sitting across from me in some imaginary coffee shop, talking about kids and hockey and all the small ways we’ve learned to be better. Dream-Reed doesn’t apologize or make grand pronouncements. He just existsin my subconscious, easy and real, like someone I could love without destroying everything.

I wake up missing someone who was never really mine, in a bed that smells like sunflowers.

And for the first time since Chicago, I let myself wonder what would happen if I stopped running.

What would happen if, just once, I chose to stay.

41

Back in Boston, I throw myself into routine like it’s armor against feeling. Practice, gym, therapy sessions with Dr. Walsh where I carefully avoid mentioning that I just flew across the country to leave flowers for someone I’m supposed to be getting over.

“You seem different today,” she observes during Thursday’s session, pen poised over her notepad like she’s taking inventory of my emotional state.

“Different how?”

“Lighter. Less... contained.”

“Maybe I’m just having a good week.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something shifted.” She studies me with the kind of professional attention that costs two hundred dollars an hour. “Want to talk about it?”

I could tell her about Phoenix. About sunflowers and parkinglots and the way Chelsea looked when she realized I’d been watching her work. About how seeing her happy—really happy—made my chest feel less hollow for the first time in months.

Instead, I deflect. “Just hockey stuff. Team’s a good one. Season’s looking promising.”

“Hmm.” She makes a note, clearly not buying my deflection but professional enough not to push. “How are things with the youth program?”

Better territory. I tell her about Tommy’s progress, about Sophie’s slap shot technique, about the way these kids see hockey as pure joy instead of professional obligation. How teaching them reminds me why I fell in love with the game before contracts and media and the weight of other people’s expectations made it complicated.

“It sounds meaningful,” she says. “Like you’re building something important.”

“Just volunteer work.”

“Is it? Or is it who you’re becoming?”

After the session, I drive to the community rink for practice with the kids. The building’s old, functional, nothing like the state-of-the-art facilities I’m used to. But there’s something honest about the scarred ice and dented boards, like they’ve earned their imperfections through years of actual use instead of corporate sponsorship.

“Coach Reed!” Sophie waves from center ice, missing half her gear because eight-year-olds are apparently incapable of remembering complete equipment. “Watch this!”

She attempts what might charitably be called a spin move, loses her balance spectacularly, and slides into the boards with enough force to rattle the plexiglass. Instead of crying, she pops up with her hands in the air and a big smile.

“That was good. Wow. Let’s practice that one again.”

---