Page 25 of Off-Limits as Puck

The words hit hard. She straightens her blazer, rebuilds her walls brick by brick while I watch.

“Our session is at ten,” she says, voice steady now. “Come prepared to discuss your anger management techniques and goals for the season. If you continue to bring up these... delusions, I’ll have no choice but to refer you to another therapist.”

She steps around me, and this time I let her go. But I can’t resist one last shot.

“Chelsea.”

She pauses but doesn’t turn.

“You still bite your lip when you’re trying not to react. Just like you did when I—”

She walks away faster, heels hammering out a retreat. But I saw it the moment before she fled, she was biting that bottom lip exactly like she did in Vegas when I first kissed her. When I made her wait. When I made her beg.

I watch until she disappears around the corner, then slump against the wall. That went... exactly as badly as expected. But now I know for sure—she remembers everything. Feels it too, if those goosebumps and dilated pupils were any indication.

The question is what the fuck do I do about it?

12

Professional distance is a myth, like work-life balance and calories not counting on vacation.

I’m hiding in the women’s bathroom like a middle schooler avoiding a crush when Maddy finds me. The team’s PR director looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine with her sharp angles and sharper wit, but her expression is sympathetic as she hands me a paper towel.

“Rough first morning?”

“Is it that obvious?” I’ve been splashing cold water on my face for five minutes, trying to erase the feeling of Reed’s breath on my neck.

“You’ve got that look. The one everyone gets after their first Hendrix encounter.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Relax. I saw he arrived two hours early for his appointment.” She checks her lipstick in the mirror. “I mean the frustration. Hehas that effect on people like a human migraine with better abs.”

“I hadn’t noticed his abs.” Lie. I’ve noticed everything, including how he’s gotten thicker since Vegas.

Maddy snorts. “Sure. And I didn’t notice that he followed you out of the locker room like a man on a mission. Coffee?”

Twenty minutes later, we’re tucked into a corner of the facility’s café, and I’m discovering that Maddy Winters might be my salvation in this testosterone-fueled nightmare.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, stirring sugar into her espresso with surgical precision. “This organization will protect you exactly as long as you’re useful and scandal-free. The second there’s even a whisper of impropriety—especially with you being Coach’s daughter—they’ll throw you under the bus so fast you’ll get road rash.”

“That’s... comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort. I’m here to warn.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “I’ve been doing PR for this team for five years. I’ve seen careers destroyed over less than a lingering look. And Hendrix? He’s a walking liability on his best day.”

“I can handle him.” Another lie. I can barely handle being in the same building.

“Can you? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like he was about to eat you alive in that hallway.”

Heat floods my face. “That was—he was confused. Thought I was someone else.”

“Honey.” Maddy’s voice goes gentle. “I spin stories for a living. That wasn’t confusion. That was recognition.”

I stare into my coffee, weighing my options. I need an ally here, someone who understands the stakes. And something about Maddy makes me think she’s seen plenty of secrets.

“Vegas,” I say quietly. “Two years ago.”

To her credit, Maddy doesn’t gasp or judge. She just nods slowly. “And now you’re here. He’s here.”

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