Page 34 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Good game,” I offer.

“Hendrix played well.” He studies me with uncomfortable intensity. “His reintegration seems successful.”

“It’s early days.”

“Indeed.” He moves to the window, looking down at the emptying arena. “I’ve been coaching for thirty years, Chelsea. I know when a player is motivated by something beyond the game.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t—”

“Whatever happened in his session yesterday, it worked. He played like a man with something to prove.” He turns back to me. “Just ensure it remains... productive.”

The warning is clear. As long as Reed performs, questions won’t be asked. But the moment it affects the team negatively...

After he leaves, I lock my door and scream into a throw pillow. Four days until I have to face Reed again. Four days to build better defenses against a man who sees through every wall I construct.

My phone buzzes one last time.

DO NOT ANSWER:Sweet dreams, Chelsea.

DO NOT ANSWER:I’ll be having them too.

I don’t respond. But I don’t delete them either.

And when I dream that night, it’s not about leaving Vegas.

It’s about what would happen if I stayed.

15

Three days without her and I’m coming apart at the seams like cheap gear after a playoff run.

The puck comes at me during morning drills, and instead of receiving it clean, I fire it into the boards hard enough to leave a mark. Weston gives me a look that says, ‘what the fuck,’ but I’m already skating away, trying to burn off whatever’s crawling under my skin.

It’s been like this since our session. Since she kicked me out. Since I played the best game of my season fueled by frustration and want. Every drill feels too slow, every play too soft. My teammates are skating through practice while I’m fighting a war they can’t see.

“Hendrix!” Coach barks. “You’re with Lawrence on defense drills.”

Lawrence. The rookie who’s been gunning for my spot since I got suspended. He grins at me like Christmas came early, all youngego and untested confidence.

“Try to keep up, old man,” he chirps as we line up.

Old man. I’m twenty-eight, not forty, but in hockey years with my penalty record? Maybe he’s got a point.

The drill starts simple—one-on-one battles for puck possession. I’m supposed to be teaching him, showing him how to use his body to create space. Instead, all I see is another obstacle between me and burning off this itch under my skin.

He comes at me hard, trying to prove something. I pivot, using his momentum against him, and then the hit is legal but brutal. Lawrence goes into the boards with a sound that echoes through the rink. He stays down a second too long, and I know I’ve fucked up before Coach even blows the whistle.

“HENDRIX!”

The rink goes silent. Twenty-eight other players stop what they’re doing to watch Coach Clark storm across the ice, face purple with rage.

“What the hell was that?”

“Hockey,” I say, but even I know it’s bullshit. That wasn’t hockey. That was me taking out my Chelsea-shaped frustrations on a kid who didn’t deserve it.

“Locker room. Now.”

“Coach—”

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