Page 73 of Off-Limits as Puck

“You were—”

“I was setting you up to fail. Because deep down, I knew you’d choose chaos over responsibility. Just like your mother.”

The comparison hits home. My mother, who left when I was twelve because Chris Clark’s version of love felt like suffocation. Who chose freedom over family obligations and never looked back.

“I’m not her.”

“No?” He turns back to me, and his eyes are wet. My father—who never cries, never shows weakness—has tears threatening. “You threw away everything for a man who will never put you first. Who will choose his addiction to conflict over your need for stability. Just like she did.”

“Reed’s not—”

“An addict? To what, Chelsea? Violence? Drama? The thrill of destroying everything good in his life?” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen his type. Hell, I’ve coached his type. They burn bright and leave nothing but ashes.”

“He’s trying to change.”

“People don’t change. They just find new ways to disappoint you.”

He leaves me sitting in that conference room with the photo still glowing on the screen and my phone buzzing with increasingly desperate messages from reporters, teammates, people I thought were friends who now want front-row seats to my destruction.

I walk through the facility in a daze, noting how conversations stop when I pass. How eyes follow me with mixtures of pity and judgment. The support staff who used to chat about weekend plans now study their phones like doctoral theses.

In my office, I find three boxes on my desk. Someone—probably security—preparing for the inevitable. Twenty-eight years of achievements ready to be packed away like evidence of a crime.

My hands shake as I reach for my diplomas, but before I can touch them, the walls start closing in. The air gets thin. My chest tightens like someone’s sitting on it, and suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t—

I run.

Down the hall, through doors, anywhere that isn’t that office with its boxes and broken dreams. The women’s locker room is empty, thank God, and I lock myself in the furthest stall, sliding down the cold tile wall until I hit the floor.

The panic attack hits like a freight train. Heart hammering against my ribs. Lungs that won’t expand. The taste of copper in my mouth as I bite my tongue trying not to scream.

This is it. This is how it ends. Not with some graceful resignation or dignified exit but hyperventilating on a bathroom floor while my life implodes around me.

“Chelsea?”

Maddy’s voice, gentle and concerned. Of course she found me. PR professionals are excellent at tracking down disasters in progress.

“Go away,” I manage between gasps.

“Can’t do that.” Her designer heels click against tile as she approaches. “Mind if I come in?”

“It’s a bathroom stall, not a boardroom.”

“I’ve had meetings in worse places.” The door opens—I forgot to lock it—and she settles on the floor beside me in her thousand-dollar suit like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Breathe with me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”

I follow her lead because I have no choice. The panic starts to recede, leaving me shaky and embarrassed and more vulnerable than I’ve felt since Vegas.

“Better?”

“Marginally.” I lean my head back against the stall wall. “How did you find me?”

“Lucky guess. Plus, you left your office door open and looked like you were about to either vomit or murder someone.” She hands me tissues from her purse. “Want to talk about it?”

“About having a breakdown in a bathroom? Not particularly.”

“About the text that made you go white during the meeting.”

I freeze. “What text?”

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