Page 129 of Off-Limits as Puck

But out my window, I can see Elliott Bay and the Olympic Mountains, snow-capped and dramatic against the gray sky. It’s beautiful in a way Boston never was. Bigger somehow. Full of possibility.

I spend the afternoon getting oriented—grocery store, coffee shop, the practice facility where I’ll start working next week. Normal tasks that feel surreal because I’m doing them in a place Chelsea will also be doing them. Same city, same team, same chance to build something real instead of just sustainable.

That evening, I’m unpacking boxes when my phone buzzes. Text from Chelsea.

Chelsea:Driving through Oregon. Should hit Seattle tomorrow afternoon. This is really happening.

Me:Nervous?

Chelsea:Terrified. You?

Me:Same. Good terrified though.

Chelsea:Any updates on your situation?

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is where I should tell her I’m already here, that I’ve been planning this surprise for weeks, that tomorrow won’t be her first day in a new city alone.

Me:Still working on logistics. Should know more soon.

Not technically a lie. I am working on logistics—specifically, the logistics of surprising someone who hates surprises but loves grand gestures when they’re executed properly.

Chelsea:It must be complicated.

Me:Everything about us is complicated.

Chelsea:True. But we’re getting better at complicated.

Me:Practice makes perfect.

Chelsea:Or at least makes it interesting.

After we stop texting, I sit in my generic apartment and plan tomorrow’s surprise. I have her new address. I have keys to her apartment—courtesy of a very understanding building manager who was impressed by my “romantic gesture” story and my willingness to provide multiple forms of ID and photo confirmations, along with displays of our text messages. After I begged and pleaded, of course.

The next morning, I drive to her building with a gift that took me three weeks to orchestrate. Her apartment is in Capitol Hill, all exposed brick and tall windows, the kind of place that screams “aspiring creative professional with decent income.” Much better than the beige box she left behind in Phoenix.

The building manager—Teddy, mid-fifties, divorced, apparently a sucker for love stories—meets me in the lobby with keys and a conspiratorial grin.

“She’s not here yet?” he asks.

“Should be a few hours. You sure this is okay?”

“Kid, I’ve been managing buildings for twenty years. Trust me, this beats the hell out of dealing with noise complaints and broken toilets.” He hands me the keys. “Just don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t.”

“Famous last words.”

Chelsea’s apartment is beautiful with its hardwood floors, exposed beams, windows that face west toward the Sound. It’s also completely empty.

I set my gift on the kitchen counter where she’ll definitely see it: my Boston Blizzards jersey from this season, cleaned and folded, with a note tucked into the sleeve.

Chelsea—

Surprise. Turns out I’m terrible at long-distance relationships, so I figured I’d try short-distance instead.

Welcome to Seattle. I’m already here if you want company unpacking. Or if you want to yell at me for not telling you I was coming.

Fair warning: I play dirty. Always have.

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