Page 21 of Off-Limits as Puck

“We’ve never met,” I say, which is true in the strictest sense. We never exchanged names, just bodily fluids and dawn regrets.

But he knows something’s off—Chris Clark didn’t become a legendary coach by missing tells. His warning about Reed being“one wrong move from being banned” lands like a threat and a prophecy.

After he leaves, I sit in my beautiful new office and contemplate faking my own death. It would be easier than spending the next season in mandatory proximity to the man who ruined me for all others.

Because that’s what he did, isn’t it? Every date, every kiss, every attempt at moving on has been measured against one night in Vegas. And they all fell short. How pathetic that the best sex of my life was with someone I can never touch again.

I stay late, hoping to avoid him in the parking lot. But when I finally emerge, there’s his car, engine running, waiting. Our eyes meet through windshields and two years of silence.

I should drive away. Instead, I lower my window.

“This can’t happen,” I say, needing him to understand.

He approaches with that predatory grace, hands carefully tucked away. We argue about the number. Christ, he tried every combination. And I hate the flutter in my chest at that revelation.

“That was then. This is now,” I insist, gripping the wheel to keep from reaching for him. “I’m your performance coach. You’re my client. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” He leans against my car, too close, smelling like ice and possibility. “You sure about that, Chelsea?”

The way he says my name should be illegal. It definitely violates several workplace policies.

“It’s Dr. Clark,” I correct, but my voice betrays me with its weakness. “And yes. I’m sure.”

“So tomorrow at ten, we’re just gonna sit in your office and pretend Vegas never happened?”

“Yes.”

“Pretend I don’t know how you sound when you—”

“Stop.” I cut him off before he can finish that sentence, before he can put words to memories I’ve been trying to suppress. “I could report you for harassment.”

“But you won’t.”

He’s right. I won’t. Because reporting him means explaining why his words affect me, means admitting to my father and Patricia and the entire organization that I’ve already crossed every line they warned me about.

We stare at each other, the weight of unfinished business crushing. He finally steps back, promising to “try to contain himself” at our ten o’clock session with a tone that suggests exactly the opposite.

I drive away but check the mirror more times than necessary. Back at my apartment, I pour wine with shaking hands and contemplate the spectacular mess I’ve walked into.

Leah calls while I’m on my second glass.

“So is Vegas boy still hot,” she says without preamble.

“Vegas boy is my client,” I correct. “My off-limits, professionally catastrophic client.”

“But he’shot.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Chelsea.”

“Fine. He’s hot. He’s also completely off-limits, working through anger issues, and happens to be my first appointment tomorrow morning.”

“What are you going to do?”

I drain my glass. “My job. I’m going to be professional, helpful,and completely appropriate.”

“And if he brings up Vegas?”

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