Page 72 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Bullshit.”

My father’s first word in thirty minutes lands like a slap. Everyone turns to him, but his eyes stay locked on mine.

“I’m sorry?” Morrison sounds shocked.

“I said bullshit.” Chris Clark doesn’t repeat profanity lightly. “Look at that photo. Look at her face. That’s not a therapist with her client. That’s a woman with her lover.”

The word “lover” in his voice makes me want to disappear. Clinical. Disgusted. Like I’m something distasteful he stepped in.

“Coach Clark—” Patricia starts.

“No.” He leans forward, and I’m seven years old again, explaining why I got second place in the spelling bee. “I’ve protected her from herself for twenty-eight years. Made excuses for poor judgment. Covered for mistakes. But this?”

“Dad—”

“This destroys everything. The team’s credibility. My coaching reputation. Her career.” His voice drops to a whisper that cuts deeper than shouting. “All for what? A hockey player with anger issues and a gambling addict for a brother?”

“That’s not—”

“What it’s about? Then tell me, Chelsea. Tell me what was worth throwing away everything you’ve worked for.”

I could tell him the truth. That Reed sees me as more than an achievement on legs. That he makes me feel alive instead of just successful. That sometimes being with him feels like the first real thing I’ve done in my carefully curated life.

Instead, I sit there drowning in his disappointment while boardmembers murmur among themselves like vultures deciding which bones to pick clean.

“The PR situation is manageable,” Maddy interjects, sliding into the room with her phone pressed to her ear. “If we move quickly. Dr. Clark issues a statement about professional conduct. Hendrix’s already suspended. We control the narrative before it controls us.”

“What kind of statement?” I ask.

“Denial. Confusion about how the photo could be misinterpreted. Emphasis on your professionalism and dedication to the team.” She looks directly at me. “Complete separation from Hendrix moving forward.”

My phone buzzes on the table. A text from an unknown number:

Unknown: 48 hours to respond or the equipment shed photos go wide.

The blood drains from my face. Equipment shed. Where we came apart against a workbench like professional boundaries were suggestions instead of commandments.

“What?” Patricia notices my expression.

“Nothing. Just...” I turn the phone face down. “Spam.”

But Maddy’s watching me with those sharp PR eyes that miss nothing. She knows. Somehow, she knows there’s more.

“I think,” Morrison’s voice cuts through the tension, “we need to discuss next steps. Dr. Clark, the board will be meeting Thursday to review your employment status.”

“You’re firing me?”

“We’re reviewing. There’s a difference.” But his tone suggests the review is a formality. “I’d suggest consulting with an attorney. And perhaps... considering a resignation. Quiet. Dignified. Before this gets uglier.”

After they file out—board members to their crisis meetings, lawyers to their billable hours—I’m left alone with my father and the echo of years of expectations crashing down.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No.” He stands slowly, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re not sorry this happened. You’re sorry you got caught.”

“That’s not true.”

He moves to the window, staring down at the practice rink where his players are trying to focus on hockey instead of their coach’s daughter’s scandal. “When I took this job, I told myself I was giving you an opportunity. A chance to prove yourself without my influence.”

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