Page 17 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I anticipated your decision. Preparation prevents poor performance.”

The same phrase he used to drill into me before every competition, every test, every life choice. I grip the phone tighter, reminding myself that I called him.

“I have conditions,” I say, surprising us both.

“I’m listening.”

“I report to the GM, not you. My recommendations go through proper channels. And you don’t interfere with my methods.”

“Agreed.”

Too easy. He’s definitely desperate.

“And I want double what the university pays me.”

“Triple,” he counters. “The position is demanding. You’ll earn it.”

Jesus. Either NHL mental performance coaches make bank, or he really is in trouble.

“Fine. But I’m not your daughter at work. I’m Dr. Clark, the performance coach. Nothing more.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” There’s something in his voice—relief? Pride? It’s gone before I can analyze it. “The team returns from a road trip Thursday. Be ready.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Typical.

I spend the next two weeks in a whirlwind of resignationpaperwork and apartment hunting. The university pretends to be sad to see me go, but we both know they’ll have my office cleared out and filled with some eager PhD candidate before I hit city limits. My students seem genuinely disappointed, which almost makes me reconsider. Almost.

Leah helps me pack, alternating between excitement and dire warnings.

“Professional athletes are different,” she says, wrapping my diplomas in bubble wrap. “Especially hockey players. They’re basically overgrown children with millions of dollars and ego issues.”

“So, like academics but with better dental insurance?”

She throws a roll of tape at my head. “I’m serious. Don’t sleep with any of them.”

“Please. I’m going to be their therapist, not a puck bunny.”

The look she gives me says she remembers Vegas as well as I do. But Vegas was a lifetime ago. I’m different now—older, wiser, significantly more bitter. The last thing I need is another complication with someone who treats women like defensive strategies.

Chicago welcomes me back with a March snowstorm that makes me question every life choice that led to this moment. My new apartment is a step up from my academic hovel. It has exposed brick, actual windows, a kitchen that doesn’t share space with my bed. The Outlaws’ organization is paying for it, which should probably bother me more than it does.

I spend the first night surrounded by boxes, reading through player files on my laptop. The team psychologist position has been empty for months, which explains some of the dysfunction. My father’s notes are meticulous but focus entirely on physical performance metrics. Nothing about the mental side, the humanside.

No wonder they’re failing.

The roster is a mix of aging veterans hanging on too long and young talent being crushed under pressure. I scan through names and stats, making notes on who’ll likely resist help (most of them) and who might be desperate enough to try (precious few).

Dominic Weston, center, team captain. Multiple injury recoveries, going through a very public divorce. Classic overcompensation patterns.

Marcus Williams, defenseman. Rookie last year, sophomore slump hitting hard. Confidence issues written all over his statistics.

Reed Hendrix, right wing. My cursor hovers over his name. High penalty minutes, multiple suspensions for fighting. Clear anger management issues. Recent return from a suspension for boarding. The notes indicate he’s talented but volatile, a “problem child” who needs—

I close the laptop. I’ll deal with each disaster as it comes.

My heart races at the thought of seeing Reed Hendrix after all this time, but I can do this. I will do this. I won’t be affected by my one-night stand that happened over two years ago. I’m more mature than that.

9

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