Page 36 of Off-Limits as Puck

But I don’t.

I watch her walk away, those heels tapping out retreat, her spine rigid with tension. She turns the corner without looking back, and I’m left standing in an empty hallway with bruised knuckles and nowhere to put all this want.

“Too late, sweetheart,” I mutter to the empty space she left behind. “You already broke me.”

The words echo off the concrete walls, too honest for comfort. Because that’s the truth Coach doesn’t understand that anger management can’t fix. Chelsea Clark broke something in me two years ago in Vegas, and she’s breaking it worse now with every professional smile and clinical question.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Jerry, my agent.

Jerry:Heard about practice. We need to talk.

Me:Pass

Jerry:Not a request. My office, one hour.

Great. Now I get to explain to my agent why I’m self-destructing over a woman I can’t have. Why I’m risking everything for someone who won’t even look at me in hallways.

I head for the parking garage, needing space and speed and anything that doesn’t remind me of her. But even in my car, I can smell phantom traces of her perfume. Feel the ghost of her walking past, so close and completely unreachable.

Coach thinks I need to get my head straight. The problem is, my head hasn’t been straight since a firecracker in a black dress asked me to dance in Vegas. And now she’s here, in my world but not in my life, breaking me a little more every day with her absence.

I drive toward Jerry’s office, already knowing what he’ll say. That I need to focus. That I can’t afford another scandal. Thatwhatever’s distracting me needs to be eliminated.

He’s right. Chelsea Clark is a distraction I can’t afford.

Too bad I’m already paying the price.

16

In the cabins for team comradery sounds like a joke. Honestly. It’s like my father wants to celebrate my first week here and decided on a last-minute getaway for the team and staff.

“There’s been a mix-up with the rooms,” the lodge manager explains, handing me a key card with an apologetic smile. “You’re in 214 now instead of 118.”

“That’s fine,” I say, because what else can I say? That I need to be as far as possible from wherever they’ve put player number 47?

I drag my suitcase down the narrow hallway, past doors marked with team staff nameplates. The Outlaws have taken over the entire lodge for this “team building and mental performance retreat”—my father’s idea, naturally. Three days of mandatory bonding activities designed to fix our dysfunction through trust falls and group therapy.

Room 214 is small but clean, with a view of snow-capped peaks that would be breathtaking if I wasn’t preoccupied withunpacking my armor. I’ve brought my most professional clothes, my thickest emotional walls, and enough Xanax to tranquilize a horse.

I’m hanging up my last blazer when I hear a door closing in the room next door. Male voices, muffled but familiar. My stomach drops as I recognize the laugh.

Of course. Of fucking course he’s next door.

I text Maddy immediately.

Me:Room situation is a disaster. Guess who’s my neighbor.

Maddy:Please tell me it’s not him

Me:215. Thin walls. I can hear him breathing.

Maddy:That’s not creepy at all. Want me to see about switching you?

Me:That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.

Maddy:Girl, you need to be careful. These retreats are pressure cookers.

She’s right. I know she’s right. But knowing doesn’t help when I can hear Reed moving around next door, probably unpacking his own bag, existing in proximity that feels both too close and not close enough.

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