Page 16 of Off-Limits as Puck

NotDad. NeverDadin professional correspondence.Sometimes I wonder if he would sign my birthday cards with his full name too if he ever sent any.

My office phone rings. It’s probably another student wanting an extension on an assignment they’ve had six weeks to complete. I let it go to voicemail. Everything goes to voicemail these days.

“Dr. Clark?” A knock accompanies the tentative voice. “Are you in there?”

I could pretend I’m not. Wouldn’t be the first time. But Riley’s one of the few students who actually gives a damn, so I wave her in through the glass door.

“What’s up?”

She shifts nervously, clutching a paper that’s bleeding red ink. My red ink. “I was wondering if we could talk about my midterm?”

“You got a B+, Riley. That’s hardly worth a crisis visit.”

“But I need an A to keep my scholarship.”

Of course she does. They all need something—more time, more help, more understanding. And I used to care. Used to stay late explaining concepts, used to believe I was making a difference. Now I just feel like a glorified babysitter with a PhD and a salary that barely covers my student loans.

“I’ll look at it again,” I lie, because that’s easier than explaining that her B+ was generous. “Send me an email reminder.”

After she leaves, I return to my father’s message. Three months ago, I would have deleted it immediately. But three months ago, I wasn’t staring down another semester of Statistical Methods for Beginners. Three months ago, I hadn’t been passed over for promotion again because I “lack seniority.” Three months ago, I still had some fight left.

My phone buzzes. Leah.

Leah: Wine tonight?

Me: Can’t. Grading.

Leah: You’re staring at your father’s email again, aren’t you?

Me: I hate that you know me.

Leah: Take the job, Chelsea. What’s the worst that could happen?

The worst? I could end up under my father’s thumb again, suffocated by his expectations and disappointed sighs. I could fail spectacularly in front of professional athletes who think therapy is for weaklings. I could prove him right. That I’m only successful when riding his coattails.

But I’m already failing here. At least in Chicago, I’d be well-paid for it.

I pull up the Outlaws’ website, scanning through their disaster of a season. They’re currently sitting at the bottom of their division, bleeding goals and hemorrhaging talent. The press is brutal, calling for coaching changes, trades, complete rebuilds. My father’s name features prominently in every article, usually preceded by words like “struggling” and “embattled.”

He needs me. He’d never admit it in those words, but that email reeks of desperation disguised as opportunity.

I close my laptop and look around my shoebox office. Motivational posters I didn’t choose. A dying plant from a well-meaning colleague. Four years of my life reduced to a twelve-by-ten room that smells like disappointment and instant coffee.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, pulling out my phone.

He answers on the first ring. Chris Clark doesn’t do casual.

“Chelsea.”

“I’ll take the job.”

Silence. Then: “Good. I’ll have HR send the paperwork. You start in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Dad, I have to give notice—”

“I’ve already spoken to your department head. They’re aware of the situation.”

My blood pressure spikes. “You what?”

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