Page 131 of Off-Limits as Puck

Chelsea:Same thing, really.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her building with Chinese takeout and the kind of nervous energy that used to fuel my worst fights. But this feels different. Like energy directed toward building something instead of destroying it.

She opens the door before I can knock, wearing jeans and a Icehawks sweatshirt that makes me stupidly happy.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” She studies my face like she doesn’t believe that I’m actually here. “You really did it. You really moved across the country.”

“For the record, I moved for the job opportunity. The fact that you’re here is just convenient.”

“Lies, Mr. Hendrix.”

“Complete lie. I moved for you. For us. For the possibility that maybe we can have both.”

“Both?”

“Everything. Career success and personal happiness. Individual growth and relationship growth. All of it.”

She steps aside to let me into her apartment, which looks exactly like I left it except for one addition: my jersey is now hanging on a hook by the door like it belongs there.

“Nice jersey,” I observe.

“Someone left it for me. Must be a fan.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah.” She moves closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “Lucky me.”

“Chelsea—”

“Thank you. For coming here. For taking the risk. For making this choice with me instead of for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But if you ever surprise me by moving cross-country again without telling me, I’m having you committed.”

“Noted.”

“Good.” She reaches up and kisses me, soft and sure and full of promise. “Now help me unpack. We’ve got a city to figure out.”

And just like that, the last piece falls into place. Not the end of our story, but the beginning of the version where we both get to win.

Where playing dirty finally pays off.

48

The next morning, I wake up at dawn with nervous energy that demands movement. My official start date isn’t for another week, but I need to see the facility, need to make this real, need to find Reed and verify he’s not just an elaborate hallucination brought on by cross-country moving stress.

The Icehawks training facility is beautiful—all glass and steel and the promise of building something significant from scratch. I use my new employee credentials to get past security, following signs toward the practice rinks where early-morning skaters are already working.

Through the glass, I can see players stretching, going through individual drills, preparing for whatever official practice awaits. The familiar ballet of professional athletes warming up, each movement precise and purposeful.

And there, near center ice, stretching his hamstrings with the focus of someone who’s done this routine ten thousand times, is Reed.

He looks good in Icehawks colors—teal and navy that somehow make his dark hair look richer, his build more imposing. But more than that, he looks settled. Like someone who belongs here, who made the right choice for the right reasons.

I watch him for a few minutes, processing the reality of seeing him in this context. Not visiting, not temporary, but integrated into this team, this city, this life we’re apparently building together.

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