Page 114 of Off-Limits as Puck

She makes her way off the ice slowly, and I watch her go like I’ve watched her leave a dozen times before. But this time feels different. This time, she’s not running away.

She’s giving me a choice.

The question is whether I’m brave enough to make it.

42

Hotel rooms are excellent for second-guessing life-altering decisions, which explains why I’ve been staring at the ceiling for three hours wondering if flying to Boston was brave or just expensive stupidity.

The Marriott’s ceiling has a water stain shaped like Texas, which feels appropriately random for a night where I’m contemplating whether to rebuild my life around someone who might not show up. I’ve counted seventeen possible outcomes to this situation, ranging from romantic reconciliation to restraining orders, and approximately none of them account for the reality that Reed Hendrix might just... not come.

My phone sits silent on the nightstand, mocking me with its lack of notifications. No missed calls, no texts, no indication that watching him coach eight-year-olds changed anything fundamental about our impossible equation.

But God, seeing him with those kids. The patience as one of the girls attempted her spin move for the twentieth time. The way hecrouched down to their eye levels, explaining technique without condescension. The genuine laugh when that little girl declared him “prettier than most boys but not as pretty as her mom.”

This isn’t the Reed from Chicago who solved problems with his fists. This isn’t even the charming disaster from Vegas who dared me to go upstairs with him. This is someone new, or maybe someone he always was underneath the anger and expectations and pressure to be someone else’s definition of masculine.

A knock at my door makes me bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted.

10:47 PM. Either housekeeping is remarkably dedicated, or Reed finally worked up the courage to make a choice.

I check the peephole. It’s unnecessary, since I know exactly who it is, and then I open the door to find him standing in the hallway holding two coffee cups and looking like he’s facing a firing squad.

“Coffee seemed safer than flowers,” he says by way of greeting.

“Depends on the coffee.” I step aside to let him in, noting how he moves carefully through the space like he’s not sure he belongs here. “What kind?”

“Gas station. So basically caffeinated disappointment with artificial flavor.”

“Perfect. Nothing says, ‘let’s talk for the entire night’ like showing up this late with caffeine.”

He laughs—actually laughs—and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Drink up. I need you wired.”

“Wired?” I joke, taking one.

He shrugs. “Just awake.”

We settle into the hotel’s generic chairs, coffee cups betweenus like a barrier or peace offering. The silence isn’t comfortable exactly, but it’s not hostile either. Just two people who’ve hurt each other trying to figure out whether they can do better.

“So,” Reed says finally. “You flew here.”

I nod, stretching my ankle. “I did.”

He watches the movement, his eyes trailing up my legs. “Why?”

I take a sip of terrible coffee, buying time to find words for feelings I barely understand. “I needed to meet you halfway. Show that I’m not completely stubborn.”

I smile at him, but he asks seriously, “Oh, you aren’t?”

“I’ve been angry at you for leaving when I never gave you reason to stay. Angry at my father for choosing his reputation over me when I never fought for myself. Angry at the system for punishing me when I participated in my own destruction.” I set down the coffee, meeting his eyes. “But mostly angry at myself for being too scared to want what I wanted.”

“Which is?”

“You. Us.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, processing. “You do?”

“I destroyed my career. I moved across the country. I can’t stop replaying what I could’ve done differently, and now I’m trying to figure out if we can build something from the wreckage.”

---