Page 89 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Yes. All of that.”

“I can’t.” The words come out broken. “I can’t keep choosing you over everything else. I can’t keep destroying myself for fifteen minutes of feeling alive.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to go back to before. Before Vegas, before you, before I knew what it felt like to want something more than I wanted to breathe.”

I head for the exit, but his voice stops me at the tunnel entrance.

“Chelsea.”

I don’t turn around.

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m fighting for you. I want this.”

“It’s too late, Reed.”

He stands in shock, staring after me.

I leave him standing there, still shirtless, still beautiful, still the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. The walk to my car feels infinite, like crossing a desert with no water and no hope of rescue.

In my rearview mirror, the United Center grows smaller until it’s just lights in the darkness. Behind me, everything we were. Ahead of me, everything we’ll never be.

My phone buzzes as I pull into traffic. A text from an unknown number.

Unknown:Time’s up, Dr. Clark. Press conference tomorrow at 3 PM. Be there or the photos go wide.

I should be terrified. Should be planning damage control, calling lawyers, figuring out how to survive whatever’s about to drop. But I don’t care anymore. The damage is already done.

Instead, I think about Reed’s words:I’m fighting for you.

Maybe it’s time I did the same.

Maybe it’s time to stop running from the fire and see what’s left when the ashes settle.

Maybe destruction really is necessary sometimes.

Even if you’re the one holding the match.

33

The text message threats about revealing the shed fuck between me and Dr. Clark have been released into the public. But they’re hot and inappropriate for the world to see. Chelsea isn’t answering any of my text messages. The damage is done, and there’s nothing more I can do now.

My phone sits on the coffee table like evidence of my isolation. No calls from Coach. No texts from teammates who aren’t sure if acknowledging me will hurt their own careers. Just Jerry checking in with increasingly grim updates about my prospects.

Jerry:KHL offer came through. Moscow. Two years, decent money.

Jerry:You need to decide soon. Interest won’t last forever.

Jerry:Reed, you there?

I’m here. Sort of. Existing in the space between who I was and who I’m about to become, watching my life dissolve in real-time while ESPN runs segments about “fallen athletes” and“cautionary tales.” They use my photo from three years ago—before the suspensions, before Chelsea, when I still looked like someone with a future.

The team’s playing tonight. First home game since the scandal broke. I could be there—technically nothing’s stopping me from buying a ticket and sitting in the stands like any other fan. But watching them play without me feels like attending my own funeral.

Instead, I order takeout I don’t eat and scroll through news feeds that dissect my relationship like sports commentary.

Chicago Tribune: “Hendrix’s Career in Freefall After Ethics Scandal”

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