Page 35 of Off-Limits as Puck

“NOW!”

I skate off, ignoring the mix of sympathy and disgust from my teammates. Lawrence is getting up, shaking his head clear. He’ll be fine. Bruised ego more than body. But that’s not the point.

The point is I’m losing control again. All the anger management sessions, all the breathing exercises and coping strategies—none of it matters when she’s in my head, making me crazy with wantand impossibility.

I’m stripping off my gear when Coach finds me, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the lockers.

“Two games,” he says without preamble. “You’ve been back two games, and you’re already pulling this shit?”

“It was a clean hit.”

“It was unnecessary. Lawrence is your teammate, not your enemy.”

“He was talking shit.”

“So? You think I care about your hurt feelings?” He steps closer, and I see something beyond anger in his eyes. Disappointment. “I went to bat for you, Hendrix. Told management you were worth the risk. That you’d learned control.”

“I have—”

“Bullshit. You’re wound tighter than you were before suspension. Playing angry, practicing angry, probably sleeping angry.” He pauses. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, fix it. Because if you can’t separate your personal shit from this team, you’re done. Not benched. Done.”

The threat lands like a slap shot to the chest. “Coach—”

“Get your head straight or get out. Your choice.”

He leaves me alone with my half-removed gear and the echoing silence of an empty locker room. I punch the wall, adding bruised knuckles to my list of stupid decisions.

My phone buzzes. Weston.

Weston:You good?

Me:Peachy

Weston:That was some bullshit

Me:Which part? The hit or the benching?

Weston:Both. You need to talk?

I need to do a lot of things. Talk isn’t one of them. What I need is to pin Chelsea against her office wall and kiss her until she admits this thing between us isn’t going away. What I need is to skate until my legs give out and my brain stops replaying Vegas on loop. What I need is impossible.

Me:I’m good.

He doesn’t respond, which means he doesn’t believe me. Smart captain.

I finish changing into street clothes, taking my time. The arena will be mostly empty now. The team finishing practice, staff in meetings. Perfect for avoiding everyone while I figure out how to fix my head without fixing the actual problem.

I’m heading for the exit when I see her.

Chelsea’s coming down the hallway, heels clicking that familiar rhythm, looking at her phone instead of where she’s going. She’s wearing gray today. A pencil skirt, silk blouse, all buttoned up and professional. Her hair is in another complicated twist that makes me want to mess it up.

She looks up at the last second, sees me, and freezes.

For a moment, we just stare at each other across ten feet of empty hallway. Her lips part like she might say something, but no words come. I wait, hands fisted in my pockets, for her to acknowledge me. To acknowledge us. To acknowledge anything beyond this painful professional distance.

Instead, she squares her shoulders and brushes past me without a word.

The scent of her is the same. The same shampoo smell that’s been haunting me for two years. She’s close enough that I could reach out, catch her arm, make her stop running.

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