Page 3 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Tonight’s one of the good nights?”

“Because I’m sitting across from the most interesting woman I’ve met in months, and she’s asking me questions that don’t have anything to do with my plus-minus rating.”

She blushes at that, a pink flush creeping up her neck that makes me want to trace it with my fingertips. There’s something about her that’s completely different from the women I usually meet. She’s not trying to impress me or get something from me. She’s just... present. Engaged. Like she actually gives a damn about my answer.

“What about you?” I lean back, studying her face. “PhD in psychology, right?”

“How did you—” She stops, tilts her head. “I never said psychology.”

I smile. “Sorry. Your friends aren’t subtle. They’ve been shriek-singingPhDin psychologyfor the last hour.”

She nods. “Right. Sorry.”

I shrug. “It’s cute.”

“It’s actually sports psychology,” she mutters, taking another sip of her martini.

“Shit,” I breathe. She has my full attention now.

Her smile is teasing, and I like the way she’s looking at me. “To narrow that even further, it’s actually sports and performance psychology with a focus on mental health therapy for athletes.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. “That’s amazing. Tell memore.”

She takes a sip of her martini, and I find myself watching the way her lips curve around the glass. Shit. I have to remind myself that this is temporary. She’s here for the weekend, I fly out Sunday morning, and that’s it. But even as I remind myself of that, I’m leaning forward, hanging on her every word.

“Most sports psychologists focus on performance—visualization, goal setting, managing competition anxiety. Important stuff. But I’m more interested in the person behind the athlete. The mental health challenges that come with this lifestyle.” She gestures vaguely around us. “The isolation, the pressure, the way your entire identity gets tied up in what you do instead of who you are.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Six years of research will do that.” She studies my face, and I feel like she’s seeing more than I’m comfortable with. “Sorry, I’m probably being way too serious for a Vegas bar conversation.”

“No, it’s...” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain that she’s just described my life with uncomfortable accuracy. “It’s refreshing, actually. Most people think the money and the fame make up for everything else.”

“Do they?”

The question is quiet, and there’s something in her voice that makes me think she already knows the answer. I should deflect, make a joke, steer the conversation back to safer territory. Instead, I find myself being honest.

“Some days. Other days you wake up in a hotel room in a city you can’t barely remember flying to, and you realize you haven’t had a real conversation with anyone in weeks.” I take a pull from my beer. “Your family stops calling because you’re never availableanyway. Your friends from before either want something from you or they’ve moved on with their lives while you’ve been stuck in this bubble. And the people you meet now... well, let’s just say they’re not usually interested in deep conversations about mental health.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. This is supposed to be light, fun, temporary. I’m not supposed to be spilling my guts to a woman I met twenty minutes ago.

“That sounds lonely,” she says finally.

“It is,” I admit before I can stop it. “But it’s also what I chose.”

“Did you, though? Choose the loneliness part, I mean.” She leans forward, and I catch a hint of her shampoo. “Or did you choose hockey, and the loneliness just came with it?”

Christ. She’s going to be good at what she does. She has this way of asking questions that cut straight to the heart of things, of making you examine parts of yourself you’d rather leave alone.

“You’re dangerous,” I tell her.

That doesn’t lessen the moment like I thought it would. She tilts her head at me, swirling her drink.

“How so?” she asks.

“You make people want to tell you things.”

Her laugh is genuine, delighted. “Occupational hazard. My friends have banned me from analyzing them.”

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