Page 40 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Whenever you’re ready,” Chelsea says, professional as fuck like she wasn’t moaning into my mouth twelve hours ago.

“Question, Doc.” I turn to face her, noting the slight tension in her shoulders. “What if trust is the problem? What if you’ve already fallen and no one caught you?”

Her jaw tightens. “Then you learn to catch yourself.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Sounds necessary.”

The team shifts uncomfortably. Everyone can feel the undercurrent, even if they don’t understand it.

“Just fall, Hendrix,” Weston calls. “Some of us want lunch.”

I fall. They catch me. Trust exercise complete. But my eyes stay on Chelsea, who’s biting that bottom lip in the way that means she’s fighting for control.

Lunch is outdoors, picnic-style team bonding bullshit. I grab my tray and make a beeline for where Chelsea’s sitting with the coaching staff. She sees me coming and subtly shifts closer to Patricia, but I squeeze into the space on her other side anyway.

“Cozy,” I comment, letting my thigh press against hers.

“Crowded,” she corrects, but doesn’t move away.

“So Doc,” Lawrence pipes up from across the table, apparently over our practice incident. “You got a boyfriend? Husband? Significant other who should know we’re alone with you in the mountains?”

The question hangs in the air. Chelsea’s hand stills on her water bottle.

“My personal life isn’t relevant to team dynamics,” she says carefully.

“That means no,” Emerald translates, grinning. “Doc’s single, boys.”

“And uninterested,” Chelsea adds firmly. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Harsh,” someone mutters.

“Professional,” she corrects, but her thigh presses harder against mine, and I have to bite back a groan.

I lean over, pretending to grab the salt, and whisper in her ear: “Liar.”

She kicks me under the table. I grin and settle back, enjoying the flush creeping up her neck.

The afternoon is supposedly about “communication exercises,” which translates to partner activities designed to make us share feelings. Chelsea, in her infinite wisdom and possible sadism, pairs me with her.

“This seems like a conflict of interest,” I point out as she leads me to a quiet corner.

“Everything about this is a conflict of interest,” she mutters, then louder: “The exercise is about active listening. One person shares for two minutes while the other listens without interrupting.”

“You want me to share my feelings? Here? Now?”

“I want you to participate in the exercise like everyone else.”

“Fine.” I lean back against the wall, studying her. “I feel frustrated. Constantly. I feel like I’m trying to play hockey with one hand tied behind my back. I feel like everyone wants me to be something I’m not—calmer, safer, less. I feel like the only time I’ve ever been myself, really myself, was in a Vegas hotel room with someone who saw all my sharp edges and didn’t run. Until she did.”

Chelsea’s breathing changes. “Reed—”

“My turn to listen,” I remind her. “Two minutes. Go.”

She looks around, checking who might overhear, then steps closer. “I feel like I’m drowning. Like everything I’ve worked for is balanced on a knife’s edge, and one wrong move will destroy it all. I feel angry that I’m here, in your professional space, making me want things I can’t have. I feel...” She pauses, eyes bright. “I feel alive when you look at me, and I hate myself for it.”

“Time,” someone calls from across the room.

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