Page 118 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Says the man who plays a sport where people regularly check each other into walls.”

“That’s controlled violence. Birds are just... random.”

“That’s hilarious,” she smiles at the thought for some odd reason.

I change the subject. “Your turn. Deep secrets and irrational fears.”

“I watch cooking shows obsessively but can barely make toast. I cry at dog food commercials. And I’m terrified of being ordinary.”

“Ordinary?”

“Average. Forgettable. One of those people who lives a perfectly nice life that doesn’t matter to anyone.” She pauses, swirling wine in her glass. “Phoenix has been good for me, but sometimes I look around and think, ‘Is this it? Is this all I’m going to build?’”

“What would extraordinary look like?”

“I don’t know. Something that helps people in ways that last.Something that matters beyond my own satisfaction.” She meets my eyes. “Something worth the cost of getting there.”

Dinner is better than expected—chicken that’s cooked through, pasta that isn’t overcooked, vegetables that resemble their intended form. We eat and talk and laugh, and it feels surreal how easy this is when we’re not carrying the weight of professional obligations and family expectations.

“Okay,” Chelsea says, finishing her second glass of wine, “your turn for deep fears and secret shames.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never be anything more than my worst moments. That people will always see the fights and suspensions and forget that I’m human, that I’m trying.”

“What else?”

“I’m afraid you’ll realize this is a mistake. That nostalgia and good intentions aren’t enough to build something real.”

“And?”

“I’m afraid I love you more than you’ll ever love me, and that imbalance will eventually destroy whatever we try to build.”

The words hang between us, too honest and too loaded. Chelsea sets down her wine glass carefully.

“Can I tell you something?” she says quietly.

“Always.”

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. It terrifies me how much I want this to work.”

“But?”

“But I’m here. In your kitchen, eating dinner you cooked, having the conversations we never got to have. If that’s not love, it’s the closest I’ve ever come.”

The space between us feels charged, but different than it used tobe. Less desperate, more intentional. Like we’re choosing each other instead of just reacting to each other.

“Chelsea,” I say carefully.

She reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm, but I don’t pull away. Don’t overthink it. Just let myself feel the simple pleasure of touching someone I love who’s choosing to touch me back.

“You sure?” I ask, because consent matters more than want.

“I’m sure I want to try.”

“Just try?”

“I’m sure I want to stop running from the only person who’s ever made me feel like myself.”

I stand, moving around the table to where she’s sitting. She looks up at me, eyes bright with wine and something that looks like hope.

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