Page 2 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I’ve been planning my opening line for the past fifteen minutes.” He turns to face me fully, and I realize just how big he really is. Not in an intimidating way, but in a way that makes me feel delicate and protected. “Though now that you’re here, I’m drawing a blank.”

There’s something disarming about his honesty, the way he’s not trying to play it cool or act like he wasn’t just as affected. It puts me at ease in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, surprising myself with how natural my voice sounds. “Because I’ve never done anything like this before, and I was starting to worry I was doing it wrong.”

“You’ve never approached a guy in a bar?” He signals thebartender, then looks back at me with those impossibly blue eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Never approached anyone anywhere, actually.” The truth should embarrass me, but instead it feels freeing. “I’m more of a ‘wait for things to happen to me’ kind of person.”

“And tonight’s different?”

I glance back at my friends, who are doing a terrible job of pretending they’re not watching every second of this interaction. “My friends think I need to celebrate properly. We are only in Vegas because I just finished my PhD.”

He whistles low. “Damn, doc.”

“Yeah,” I smile proudly. “What did you say your name was?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

The bartender slides over a drink, and he hands it to me. I accept the fresh martini and thank him.

“Reed Hendrix,” he says. “Professional puck chaser.”

I laugh at that. “Is that the technical term?”

“According to my brother, yes.” His grin is boyish and completely charming. “So, doc, what does someone with a PhD do for fun in Vegas?”

“Well, up until about five minutes ago, the plan was to drink expensive cocktails and maybe lose twenty dollars on the penny slots.” I take a sip of my martini, the gin giving me too much courage. I’m completely at ease like him and I have been friends forever. “What does a professional puck chaser do for fun?”

“Usually? Team dinner, early bedtime, game prep.” He moves closer, and I catch a hint of his clean cologne. “But coach gave us the night off, and I was getting pretty bored drinking alone.”

“Poor you,” I tease. “I’m sure it’s a real hardship being aprofessional athlete in Vegas.”

“You’d be surprised. Most of the time, we’re not allowed to actually enjoy the cities we visit. It’s hotel, arena, hotel, plane. Rinse and repeat.”

There’s something in his voice that suggests he’s not just making conversation, that there’s real loneliness behind the glamorous facade. It makes me see this differently. He’s not just a typical confident athlete, but he’s someone who might understand what it’s like to be dedicated to something that doesn’t leave much room for a personal life.

“So what’s different about tonight?” I ask.

“Besides getting permission from the boss? Well, I just met someone who looks at me like I’m just a normal guy in a bar, not a walking stat sheet.” He pauses, studying my face. “It’s been a while since that happened.”

The honesty in his voice does something to me, breaks down another wall I didn’t even realize I’d built. “For what it’s worth, I know absolutely nothing about hockey stats.”

“Perfect.” His smile is warm, genuine. “Want to grab a table? I’d like to hear more about this PhD of yours.”

I glance back at my friends one more time. Mia gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up, Sarah makes a shooing gesture, and Emma just grins and raises her champagne flute in a toast. They’re clearly planning to make themselves scarce, and for once, I’m grateful for their meddling.

“I’d like that,” I tell Reed, and mean it completely.

As he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward a quieter corner booth, I realize that maybe Future Chelsea isn’t going to want to murder Present Chelsea after all. Maybe, for the first time in six years, I’m about to do something purely for the joy of it.

2

I’ve been playing professional hockey for eight years, and I’ve learned to read people quickly. You have to when you’re constantly traveling, meeting new faces, trying to figure out who wants something from you and who’s genuinely interested in just having a conversation. So when this beautiful mysterious woman celebrating her PhD slides into the booth across from me, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear with fingers that aren’t quite steady, I know she’s nervous. What I can’t figure out is why that makes her even more attractive.

“So,” she says, wrapping her hands around her martini glass, “tell me about professional puck chasing. Do you actually enjoy it, or is it one of those things you fell into and now you’re stuck?”

Most people ask about stats, about wins and losses, about which teams I think will make the playoffs. They want the surface stuff,the things they can repeat to their friends later. Her question catches me off guard in the best way.

“I love it,” I say, and realize I mean it more than I have in a while. “Though some days I love it more than others. Tonight’s one of the good nights.”

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