Page 32 of Off-Limits as Puck

“And I kicked him out fifteen minutes early because I was about to either murder him—” I stop, taking another sip.

“Or jump him?”

“Maddy!”

“Chelsea, honey, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. It’s like watching a lit fuse burn toward dynamite.”

“That’s the problem.” I slump back, exhausted. “I can’t be objective with him. He gets under my skin, finds every button and pushes it. And my body—”

“Betrays you?”

“Responds. Like muscle memory. He leans forward, and I remember how he—” I cut myself off. “This is insane. I’m going to remove him from my caseload.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“No, literally, you can’t.” Maddy’s expression turns serious. “His therapy is court-mandated as part of his reinstatement. If you refuse to treat him without documented cause, it raises questions. Questions neither of you want answered.”

“So I’m trapped.”

“You’re challenged. There’s a difference.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Look, you’ve got days until the next session. Use them. Build better walls. Practice your poker face. Remember what’s at stake. Oh, and don’t forget there’s the retreat. I’ll send the details over.”

“A retreat?” I question. “I’ll look over the details. Thanks.”

After she leaves, I try to focus on my other clients. The rookie with anxiety. The veteran dealing with retirement fears. Normal therapeutic relationships with appropriate boundaries and zero sexual tension.

But my mind keeps drifting to Reed. The way he sprawled in that chair like he owned it. How his voice dropped when he talked about wanting me. The heat in his eyes when I finally pushed back.

By evening, I’m home in my safest pajamas, grading papers and definitely not thinking about tomorrow’s game. My roommate Julia tries to engage me in conversation about her latest Tinder disaster, but I’m barely listening.

“The hockey job? How’s that going?”

“It’s...” Complicated. Dangerous. Possibly career-ending. “Fine.”

“You should get me tickets sometime. I love a man in uniform.”

“They don’t wear uniforms. They wear gear.”

“Same thing. All that padding in strategic places.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Any cute ones?”

Right now. Looking at you. Wanting you so bad I can’t think straight.

“They’re all clients,” I say firmly. “Off limits.”

“Boring.” She flops on the couch. “You need to live a little, Chelsea. When’s the last time you had really good sex?”

Two years, three months, and twenty-seven days ago.

“I’m going to bed,” I announce, gathering my papers.

“It’s eight thirty!”

“Early morning tomorrow.”

In my room, I try to meditate. Count sheep. Practice the progressive muscle relaxation I recommend to clients. Nothing works. Every time I close my eyes, I see Reed leaning toward me, all controlled intensity and dangerous promises.

When’s the last time you just felt something without thinking it through?

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