Page 31 of Off-Limits as Puck

She shoves me into the hallway and slams the door. Through the wood, I hear something hit the ground—a book maybe, or her professional composure.

I lean against the opposite wall, heart racing like I just played three periods. That went exactly as badly as expected and somehow worse. But I also saw her crack, saw Chelsea bleeding through Dr. Clark’s armor.

I push off the wall and head for the gym. If I can’t fuck out my frustrations, might as well try to lift them out. But I know it won’t work. Nothing has worked for two years.

Behind her closed door, I hear movement. Pacing, maybe. Or cleaning up whatever she threw. I should leave her alone, let her rebuild her defenses in peace.

Instead, I text her.

Me:For what it’s worth, I’ve been in therapy for two months. Real therapy. Not whatever this is.

Me:I’m trying to be better. But you make me want to be worse.

Me:See you at tomorrow’s game, Doc.

I pocket my phone and walk away, leaving her to her scheduled life and professional boundaries. But we both know the truth now—Vegas wasn’t an ending.

It was just the beginning of whatever this disaster is about to become.

14

I don’t throw things. I’m a professional with multiple degrees and excellent emotional regulation. So the stapler that just hit my office door must have been a poltergeist.

“Fuck!” The word escapes before I can stop it, echoing in my supposedly soundproof office.

My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking, actually, like I’ve been electrocuted. Which isn’t far from how it felt having Reed Hendrix in my space, breathing my air, saying things that made my carefully constructed walls crumble like tissue paper in rain.

“You didn’t seem to mind how noncompliant I was in Vegas.”

I sink into my chair, head in my hands. He’s right. God help me, he’s right about all of it. The control issues, the fear, the way I’ve scheduled my life into such rigid boxes that there’s no room for anything messy or real or...him.

My phone buzzes. His texts stare at me, each word a perfectlyaimed arrow:

“I’m trying to be better. But you make me want to be worse.”

I should delete them. Block his number. Report the interaction to Patricia and request he be assigned to another therapist. That’s what Professional Chelsea would do.

Instead, I stare at the messages until my vision blurs, remembering the look on his face when he said it meant everything. Raw. Honest. Devastating.

A knock makes me jump. “Come in.”

Maddy enters, taking in my disheveled appearance and the stapler on the floor. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She closes the door and produces a flask from her purse. “Emergency bourbon. Spill.”

“It’s ten forty-five in the morning.”

“And you just had your first Hendrix session. The bourbon is medicinal.” She pours a shot into my coffee mug. “What happened?”

I take a sip, letting the burn steady me. “He happened. Hurricane Reed hit my office and left destruction in his wake.”

“Specifics.”

“He turned everything around on me. Made the session about my issues instead of his. Called me out on...” I wave vaguely. “Everything.”

“And?”

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