Page 33 of Off-Limits as Puck

I try to tell my mind to be quiet, but it doesn’t listen.

I finally fall asleep around midnight, only to dream of Vegas. But this time, I don’t leave. This time, when he asks me to stay, I do. I wake up in the early morning hours, gasping and aching andfurious at my subconscious for its terrible timing.

The next morning, I dress like armor—black suit, hair in a severe bun, makeup that says, ‘I’m untouchable and definitely not thinking about your mouth.’ I arrive at the arena early, determined to watch the game from my office via the closed-circuit feed.

That plan lasts exactly until warm-ups, when I find myself drawn to the rink level “to observe team dynamics.” It has nothing to do with seeing how Reed looks in his gear after months away.

He’s magnetic on the ice, all that chaotic energy channeled into grace and power. His teammates give him space at first, but as drills progress, I see the ice beginning to thaw. Weston feeds him passes. Marcus chirps at him after a play. The team remembering how to be a team.

“Couldn’t stay away?”

I jump. Patricia stands beside me, watching the ice with calculating eyes.

“Observing interpersonal dynamics,” I say smoothly. “Integration after suspension can affect team cohesion.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Hendrix looks good out there. Focused.”

Focused. Right. Except for when he glances toward where I’m standing, like he knows exactly where I am even though the glass is crowded with staff and early-arriving fans.

“His session yesterday,” Patricia continues. “Any concerns?”

“He was... resistant to traditional therapeutic approaches.”

“But manageable?”

You make me want to be worse.

“Completely manageable,” I lie.

The game is a revelation. Reed plays like a man possessed, channeling whatever demons drive him into three goals and an assist. The crowd goes wild every time he touches the puck. Even my father, standing behind the bench, allows a small smile after the second goal.

I should go back to my office. Process notes. Plan for other sessions. Instead, I watch him celebrate with his teammates, the joy on his face making him look younger. Lighter. Like the man who laughed with me in Vegas before everything got complicated.

My phone buzzes.

DO NOT ANSWER:Nice suit, Doc. Very professional.

I look around, but he’s on the ice, focused on the game. How did he—

DO NOT ANSWER:You’re in section 104. Third row. Trying to blend in but failing.

DO NOT ANSWER:That’s not creepy. I just know where you are. Always.

I should be disturbed. Instead, heat pools low in my belly.

Me:Pay attention to the game.

DO NOT ANSWER:I am. We’re winning. Thanks to my excellent focus.

DO NOT ANSWER:Turns out anger isn’t my only motivator.

The implications make me squirm in my seat. I watch him take his next shift, playing with an intensity that borders on violent but stays just within legal. He’s channeling something, and I have a sick feeling it’s me.

After the game, I escape to my office before the media scrum. But I can’t focus on paperwork, too amped from watching him play. From those texts. From the knowledge that in five days,we’ll be in this room again, pretending we don’t affect each other.

A knock interrupts my spiral. “Come in.”

It’s my father. He never visits my office.

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