Page 46 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Don’t insult my intuition or my intelligence.” He steals a fry from my plate. “Whatever happened at the retreat—”

“Nothing happened.”

“Right. Nothing happened so hard that you’re mentoring rookies and she’s fake-dating the trainer.” He gives me a look. “Fix it before it affects the team.”

“It won’t affect the team.”

“It already is. You played like shit last night after seeing them together. Nearly took off Thompson’s head with that check.”

“That was a legal hit.”

“Legal and necessary are different things.” He stands, clapping my shoulder. “Talk to her, Nic. Or move on. But this angry pining bullshit? It’s beneath you.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But knowing and doing are different animals, and I’m too fucked up to figure out which one to chase.

That night, I stay late reviewing game tape, trying to lose myself in strategy and statistics. The facility empties out slowly—staff heading home, players to whatever lives they’ve built outside these walls. By ten, it’s just me and the ghosts of bad decisions.

I’m heading to my car when I see Chelsea’s at her vehicle in the nearly empty parking garage, struggling with two bags of… paperwork? Maybe? And she’s fumbling for her keys. Every instinct in me screams to help her, but she got me out of her system and now she has Jake who’s probably waiting at herapartment with wine and good intentions.

Fuck it.

I jog over, reaching for the bags. “Let me—”

“I’ve got it.” She jerks back, sending binders flat onto the concrete.

We both freeze, then drop to gather the scattered papers. Our hands brush reaching for the same binder, and the contact burns.

“Reed—”

“How’s Jake?”

“He’s fine.” She stands, arms full of unorganized papers. “Not that it’s your business.”

“Right. Nothing’s my business. Not who you date, not who you—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll throw these bags at your head.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh. “Violence? From the team therapist? What would management think?”

“Management would think you drove me to it.” She shifts the bags, keys jangling. “Why do you care anyway? About Jake?”

“I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me with the death glare you gave him.”

“That was just my face.”

“Your face when you’re jealous.”

The word hangs between us, too honest for the echo of this garage.

“I’m not—” But I can’t finish the lie. “Fine. He’s not right for you.”

“And you are?” She laughs, but it sounds like breaking. “Reed,you’re not right for anyone. You’re chaos in skates. You’re every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make wrapped in game misconduct penalties.”

“And Jake’s what? Safe? Boring? Everything I’m not?”

“Yes!” The word explodes from her. “He’s safe and boring and doesn’t make me want to throw away everything I’ve worked for. He doesn’t keep me up at night. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m drowning every time he looks at me.”

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