Page 14 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Bullshit.” She grabs my laptop, and before I can stop her, she’s pulled up my browser history. “Chicago Outlaws highlights? Since when do you care about hockey?”

Since never. Since Vegas. Since I started having dreams about forearms and tattoos and being pressed against hotel doors.

“My dad,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. “He just took a job with them.”

Leah’s eyebrows shoot up. “The Chris Clark is going to fix Chicago’s dumpster fire of a team?”

“That’s the plan, apparently.” I snatch my laptop back. “He wants me to join the performance analytics department.”

“And?”

“And I’d rather perform my own root canal.”

She studies me with the kind of focus that made her a great psychologist and terrible roommate. “This is about more than daddy issues.”

“Everything in my life is about daddy issues.” I close the laptop harder than necessary. “I’m not working for him. End of story.”

Except it’s not the end. He’s called six times this week, each voicemail more disappointed than the last. The great Chris Clark doesn’t understand why his daughter won’t jump at the chance to work for an NHL team, to apply her shiny new PhD to something “practical” instead of “wasting it on teaching.”

What he really doesn’t understand is that I’m tired of being an extension of his success.

“Come out with us tonight,” Leah pleads. “Sarah’s friend is having a thing in Wicker Park. There’ll be normal people there. Maybe even some who don’t know what standard deviation is.”

“Pass.”

“Chelsea.” She flops dramatically beside me. “It’s been threemonths. You can’t stay celibate forever because some Vegas rando ruined you for other men.”

“I’m not—” But I am. God, I am. I’ve tried to stop thinking about him, really tried. But every date feels wrong. Every touch falls short. It’s like my body is waiting for someone specific and accepts no substitutes.

“Fine,” I concede, because saying no requires energy I don’t have. “But I’m not staying late.”

The party is exactly what I expect. It’s too loud, too crowded, too full of people who peak at small talk. I nurse a beer in the corner, watching Leah work the room while I pretend to check my phone.

My phone buzzes with another call from my father. This time, I answer.

“Chelsea.” His voice is crisp, professional. Never just ‘dad.’ “I trust you’ve reconsidered my offer.”

“No.”

“The position won’t remain open indefinitely.”

“Good.”

His sigh could freeze Lake Michigan. “This stubbornness is beneath you.”

“This stubbornness got me a PhD,” I remind him. “On my own. Without your connections or recommendations.”

“And now you’re wasting it teaching undergraduates who can’t even… what was it?”

I cut him off. “I’m building my own career.”

“You’re hiding,” he counters. “From what, I have no idea.”

From you.From expectations. From hot and brute hockey players.

“I have to go,” I lie. “Papers to grade.”

“The team’s home opener is next week. You’ll be there.”

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