Page 132 of Off-Limits as Puck

He hasn’t noticed me yet, too focused on his warmup routine. But then something makes him look up—instinct, peripheral movement, that magnetic awareness we’ve always had for each other—and his entire face transforms when he sees me.

The smile that spreads across his features could power the building. Pure joy, unguarded and infectious, like someone just told him Christmas came early.

He skates toward the boards where I’m standing, and I meet him at the glass. For a moment, we just look at each other through the barrier—me in civilian clothes, him in full gear, both of us grinning like idiots.

“Hi,” he says, voice muffled by the glass but still clear enough to make my chest tight.

“Nice jersey.”

“Thanks. New team, thought I’d try the local colors.”

“How’s it fit?”

“Better than expected. Like maybe I was meant to be here all along.”

The words hit harder than they should, loaded with implications about belonging and choice and the way some decisions feel right even when they terrify you.

“When did you get here?” I ask.

“Few days ago. Wanted to get settled before springing myself on you.”

“Consider me sprung upon.”

“Good sprung upon or bad sprung upon?”

Instead of answering, I walk around the rink to the team entrance, flashing my credentials at the attendant who waves me through. The locker room area is bustling with players and staff, but I navigate through it with single-minded focus.

Reed’s skating toward the opening in the boards when I reach ice level, and something in my expression must telegraph my intentions because his eyes widen.

“Chelsea—”

I don’t let him finish. Instead, I step onto the ice in my sneakers, grab the front of his practice jersey, and kiss him.

Right there. In front of his new teammates, coaching staff, and anyone else who happens to be watching. Soft but sure, claiming him and this moment and the choice we’re making together.

When we break apart, I’m vaguely aware that the rink has gone quiet. Twenty-something professional athletes and various staff members staring at their new mental performance coach kissing their recently acquired right wing like she owns him.

“Hi,” I say again, quieter this time.

“Hi.” His hands find my waist, steadying me on the ice. “I loved that. Do it again.”

Around us, the team has resumed their warmup skating, though I catch more than a few curious glances and probably several phones capturing this moment for posterity. But for once, I don’t care about controlling the narrative or managing appearances.

I stand on my tip-toes and kiss him again.

For once, I just care about being here, with him, choosing us infront of everyone who matters.

“So,” Reed says, still holding me steady on the ice, “how do you want to handle this? The whole teammates-knowing-we’re-together thing?”

“Honestly. Professionally. With clear boundaries about work versus personal time.” I meet his eyes. “But not secretly. I’m done with secrets.”

“Good. Because I’m terrible at keeping them anyway.”

“I noticed.”

A voice from across the ice interrupts us: “Hendrix! You planning to skate today, or just stand there making out with the staff?”

We turn to see Coach Hartley grinning at us with the expression of someone who’s been coaching long enough to roll with whatever curveballs his players throw at him.

---