Page 117 of Off-Limits as Puck

It looks like I’m trying. Which I am. Desperately.

The knock comes exactly on time, because Chelsea has always been punctual.

“Hi,” she says when I open the door, and the simple greeting feels loaded with eight months of distance.

“Vegas.” I step aside to let her in, noting how she moves through my space—careful but curious, like she’s cataloging details. “Wine?”

She smiles at the nickname. “Please. And fair warning, I stress-ate lunch, so if I can’t eat much, I’m blaming nerves instead of your cooking.”

“Noted. Though my cooking might actually be terrible, so keep your options open.”

“I thought you said you could cook.” She cocks her head at me.

“I had to get you over here somehow.” I smirk.

She’s wearing jeans and a sweater the color of autumn leaves, hair down instead of pulled back, looking like someone who decided to be comfortable instead of armored. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen her since Chicago.

“Your place is nice,” she says, accepting the wine glass. “Very... adult.”

“Was that in question?”

“Hockey players aren’t exactly known for interior design skills. Too busy beating other guys on the ice.” She takes a sip of her wine.

“I’m not doing that anymore.”

“No?”

“No, but if you’re impressed by this. You should see my man cave.”

“You have a man cave?”

“I have a spare bedroom with a TV and a couch where I go to sulk after bad games. Calling it a man cave makes it sound intentional instead of pathetic.”

“I’d like to see this pathetic man cave.”

“After dinner. If you survive my cooking.”

We settle into easy conversation while I finish preparing food that’s actually edible. Chelsea perches on a barstool at my kitchen island, wine in hand, watching me navigate around the stove with probably more confidence than I actually possess.

“You know,” she says, “this is the longest conversation we’ve had without discussing my father, your anger issues, or professional ethics.”

“It is?”

“I want to talk about all the normal relationship stuff we nevergot to figure out.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“Movies we love, books we hate, whether you’re one of those people who puts pineapple on pizza.”

“I am absolutely one of those people.”

“Deal breaker.” But she’s smiling when she says it. “What else?”

“I read biographies exclusively. I think romantic comedies are lying to people about how relationships work. And I have an irrational fear of birds.”

“Birds?”

“Unpredictable. All that flying around, dive-bombing people for no reason. It’s chaos with wings.”

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