Page 68 of Off-Limits as Puck

Instead, I pull up my message thread with Reed. Our last exchange from before everything went wrong.

Reed:For what it’s worth, I’d rather be unprofessional with you than professional with anyone else.

I’ve typed and deleted a hundred messages since that night at his apartment. Apologies. Explanations. Accusations. Confessions. None of them sent because what could I possibly say?

I’m sorry I destroyed us?I miss you so much I can’t breathe?My father wants me to lie about you to the press?Someone might have photos of us?

My phone rings. Unknown number.

“Dr. Clark,” I answer professionally.

“Dr. Clark, this is Amy Winters from the Chicago Tribune. I’m working on a story about the Outlaws’ mental health program and wondered if you could comment on your relationship with Reed Hendrix.”

The room tilts. “I’m sorry?”

“Your therapeutic relationship,” she clarifies, but her tone suggests she knows exactly what she’s implying. “There arequestions about boundaries and professional ethics.”

“All player interactions follow strict professional guidelines. If you have questions about our program, please contact our media department.”

“What about photos suggesting otherwise?”

“I’m not aware of any photos. Excuse me, I have a session.”

I hang up, hands shaking. The vultures are circling, smelling blood in the water. Whatever photos exist are about to surface, and my carefully constructed life is about to implode.

I should warn Reed. Should warn Maddy. Should do something besides sit here frozen while my professional death approaches.

Instead, I stare at his contact in my phone, at the messages I can’t send, at the mess I’ve made of everything.

Thursday’s press event is in two days. Two days to pretend everything’s fine while knowing a bomb is about to drop. Two days to lie about the one real thing in my fabricated life.

My father wanted me to choose between Reed and my career.

Looks like the choice is about to be made for me.

27

The thing about bombs is you never hear the one that gets you—until it’s already detonated.

We’re midway through power play drills when the first phone buzzes. Then another. Then twenty more, a symphony of notifications that cuts through the sound of pucks on ice. Players slow, confused, as Coach blows the whistle.

“What the hell is going on?”

Weston’s already checking his phone, face shifting from curiosity to shock to something that looks like pity when his eyes find me.

“Nic,” he says quietly. Too quietly.

“What?”

He hands me his phone, and the world tilts off its axis.

The photo is grainy, obviously taken from distance with a long lens. But it’s clear enough. Me and Chelsea outside theteam hotel in Minneapolis three weeks ago. My hand on her lower back. Her face turned up to mine. The space between us nonexistent, intimate, damning.

The headline screams:OUTLAWS THERAPIST IN SECRET AFFAIR WITH TROUBLED PLAYER

“Fuck.”

The word escapes as more phones light up. Group texts. Social media alerts. The story spreading like wildfire through the team, the organization, the world. I look around at faces shifting from shock to judgment to careful neutrality.

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