Page 18 of Off-Limits as Puck

The first rule of redemption is pretending you don’t need it, so I walk into the United Center like I own the fucking place.

Never mind that I haven’t set foot in here for months. Never mind that my reinstatement came with more conditions than a prenup. Never mind that half my teammates probably bet on how long before I fuck up again.

“Hendrix!” A reporter shoves a microphone in my face before I’m three steps inside. “How does it feel to be back?”

“Like Christmas morning,” I deadpan, pushing past.

They swarm like sharks smelling blood. Questions about my brother, about the anger management, about whether I’m a liability. I give them nothing but shoulder checks and silence until security finally does their job.

The locker room goes quiet when I enter. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes tracking me like I’m a live grenade with a loose pin. Even Weston, my supposed best friend, just nods before turning backto his gear.

Message received.

I find my stall. The same spot, like they were afraid to give it to someone else in case I came back swinging. My gear’s all here, pristine and waiting. The equipment managers, at least, still have my back.

“Welcome back.” Coach Williams appears at my shoulder, voice carefully neutral. We both know he fought against my reinstatement. We both know he lost.

“Coach.”

“You’re on the third line tonight. Prove you belong higher.”

Third line. I’ve been first line since my second year, but I nod like demotion tastes good. Like I haven’t been watching every game from my apartment, screaming at the TV when they blew lead after lead.

“Team meeting in five,” he adds. “We’ve got someone new to introduce.”

Great. Another rookie to babysit or some consultant to tell us how to “maximize our potential.” I lace up my skates with unnecessary force, ignoring the weight of my teammates’ silence.

Marcus finally breaks. “How was the gulag?”

“Educational.” I test my edges against the rubber floor. “Learn anything while I was gone?”

“Yeah. How to lose spectacularly.”

At least the kid’s honest. Our record since my suspension has been embarrassing. Two wins in eight weeks. Not that anyone’s asking, but we’ve been missing my particular brand of controlled chaos.

“Alright, listen up!” Williams’ voice cuts through the pre-practice noise. “Before we hit the ice, I want to introduce our new mental performance coach. Some of you have heard we’re bringing in specialized support.”

Mental performance coach. Fancy title for someone to ask about our feelings while we hemorrhage goals.

“She’ll be working with each of you individually to address performance issues, mental blocks, whatever’s keeping you from playing at your best.”

She. Interesting. Half the room perks up at that.

“A reminder that this is a professional relationship. She’s also my daughter, so anyone who forgets that professionalism will answer to me. Clear?”

Nervous laughter ripples through the room.Coach’s daughter. This should be fun to watch. All thirty hormonal athletes trying not to hit on someone who could end their careers with one complaint to daddy.

“Gentlemen, Dr. Chelsea Clark.”

The door opens, and my entire world tilts off its axis.

Because walking into our locker room in a professional blazer and heels that make her legs look illegal is her. Vegas. My ghost. The woman whose name and number I’d tried to decode for weeks.

Her name’s Chelsea Clark. Coach’s daughter. Jesus fuck.

I lean back in my stall, a grin spreading across my face before I can stop it. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“No fucking way,” I mutter, just loud enough for Marcus to hear.

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