Page 19 of Off-Limits as Puck

Is this why she ran? She pretended to not know who I was and now knowing that her father has been my coach feels like a punch to the fucking throat. Pieces of the puzzle start coming together. It’s no wonder she didn’t tell me her name, sheprobably gave me the wrong number, but nothing beats having her in the same room with me after all this time.

I know she knows I’m here.

“What?” Marcus asks.

But I’m not answering. I’m too busy watching her scan the room with cool professionalism, her expression giving away nothing. She looks good. Way better than my memories, which I’d convinced myself were exaggerated by whiskey and wishful thinking.

Her hair’s pulled back in some complicated twist that makes me remember how it felt spread across my pillows. The blazer’s buttoned up tight, but I know what’s underneath. Know the sounds she makes when—

Her eyes find mine.

For one perfect second, her mask slips. I see recognition, panic, and something else flash across her face before she locks it down. But I saw it. She knows exactly who I am.

Thisisbetter than Christmas.

She recovers like a pro, addressing the team about mental preparation and competitive edge while I study every micro-expression. The way her hands gesture when she talks. The slight rasp in her voice that takes me back to a hotel room and promises we didn’t keep.

“Questions?” she asks, and I have about a thousand, starting with why she gave me a fake number and ending with what she’s wearing under that blazer.

Williams asks about her objectivity—kid’s got balls—and she handles it smoothly. But when she says, “we all have baggage,” her eyes flick to mine for just a heartbeat.

Yeah, sweetheart. We certainly do.

When she escapes after the meeting, I’m on my feet before my brain catches up. She power-walks down the corridor like she’s being chased, those heels clicking out a rhythm that matches my pulse.

“Vegas.”

She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. When she does, her face is a mask of professional indifference.

“It’s Dr. Clark. And you are?”

The words hit like a slap shot to the chest. She’s really going to play it like this?

“Reed Hendrix.” I extend my hand, playing along with her charade. “Right wing.”

She shakes it quickly, efficiently, like touching me burns. “Mr. Hendrix. I look forward to our session.”

“About that—”

“Schedule with my assistant. Excuse me.”

And she’s gone, leaving me standing in the hallway like an idiot. Dr. Clark. Like I didn’t have her begging for more in a Vegas hotel. Like she didn’t write her number on my arm before disappearing.

Except she did disappear. And the number was smudged. And now she’s here, in my world, pretending we’re strangers.

“You good?” Weston appears beside me, finally ready to acknowledge my existence.

“Peachy.”

He studies me with the kind of attention that made him captain. “You know her?”

“Never seen her before in my life.”

“Bullshit. You looked like someone stole your favorite toy andgave it back broken.”

I force my shoulders to relax. “Just surprised Coach has a daughter hot enough to—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll let Coach bench you permanently.” But he’s smiling now, some of the ice between us thawing. “Seriously though. Don’t fuck with her. We need this—someone to get our heads right. And you need to stay out of trouble.”

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