Page 135 of Off-Limits as Puck

I study her face, looking for signs that this is her father’s idea instead of hers. But all I see is someone who’s ready to stop compartmentalizing the different parts of her life.

“Okay,” I say finally. “When and where?”

“Now. If you’re up for it. There’s a place downtown he likes. It’s quiet, no chance of running into hockey people.”

“I’m still in practice clothes.”

“You look good in practice clothes.”

“Chelsea, I smell like a locker room.”

“You smell like hockey. It’s not the worst thing.”

An hour later, I’m sitting across from Chris Clark in a restaurant that’s clearly chosen for privacy rather than atmosphere. Cloth napkins, low lighting, the kind of place where conversations can happen without being overheard or photographed.

He looks older than I remember, less intimidating outside the context of hockey arenas and professional authority. Just a man having dinner with his daughter and the guy she’s chosen to rebuild her life around.

“The team looks good,” he says, cutting into what’s probably the most expensive steak in Seattle. “Chemistry’s developing faster than anyone expected.”

“Yeah, they’re a good group. Smart players, good work ethic.”

“And you’re fitting in well?”

“Seems like it. Still early, but the system makes sense and my linemates are easy to play with.”

We talk hockey for twenty minutes—safe territory where we can find common ground without addressing the elephant at the table. Chelsea mostly listens, contributing observations about team dynamics and player psychology that remind me exactly why she’s so good at her job.

“I should use the restroom before we order dessert,” Chris says eventually, excusing himself with the kind of timing that suggests this isn’t entirely about biological necessity.

When he’s gone, Chelsea reaches across the table, fingers finding mine.

“He really likes you, you know,” she says quietly.

“He’s being polite.”

“He’s being genuine. Trust me, I know the difference.” She squeezes my hand. “You should see how he talks about you when you’re not around. He respects what you’ve done to get here.”

“And what have I done?”

“Grown up. Taken responsibility. Chosen to be better instead of just promising to be better.” She pauses. “He sees the same thing I see.”

“And what do you see?”

“I see the man I fell in love with in Vegas, except now he’s someone I can build a life with instead of just a memory I treasure. I see someone who followed me across the country not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Someone who’s proving every day that love and ambition don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

Her father returns before I can respond, settling back into his chair with the satisfied expression of someone who’s given two people the space they needed for an important conversation.

“So,” he says, looking directly at me, “Chelsea tells me you’re thinking about making Seattle permanent.”

“Yes, sir. Assuming the team wants to keep me around.”

“They will. You’re exactly what they need—skill with an edge, experience with hunger.” He pauses, something shifting in his expression. “And you make my daughter happy. That mattersmore than hockey.”

The confession hangs in the air, loaded with everything we haven’t said about Chicago and choices and the way people can change when they’re given the chance.

“She makes me happy too,” I tell him. “Makes me want to be worthy of that happiness.”

“Good. That’s what love should do—make you want to be better, not make you settle for less.”

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