Page 4 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Smart friends.” I signal for another round, even though my beer is only half empty. I’m not ready for this conversation to end, not ready to go back to my hotel room and think about tomorrow’s game. “So what made you choose this field? Besides the obvious fact that you’re good at it.”

She considers the question, twirling the stem of her martini glass between her fingers. “My cousin played college football. DivisionI, full scholarship, the works. When I was seventeen, I watched him have a complete breakdown during his senior year. The pressure, the expectations, the fear that football was all he was good at... it nearly destroyed him.”

“What happened?”

“He got help. Found a therapist who specialized in working with athletes, someone who understood that his identity crisis wasn’t just about football—it was about being a young man who’d been told since he was twelve that his worth was tied to his performance on the field.” She meets my eyes. “He’s doing great now. Coaching high school, married, kids. But it took years for him to believe he was valuable as a person, not just as a player.”

The parallels to my own life are uncomfortable and obvious. I’ve been playing hockey since I was four, been told I was talented since I was seven, been working toward this since I was old enough to understand what “professional” meant. Some days I’m not sure who Reed Hendrix is when he’s not wearing skates.

“Sounds like your cousin was lucky to have someone who cared enough to notice.”

“And it sounds like you understand what he went through better than most people would.”

She’s doing it again. Seeing too much, making connections I’m not sure I’m ready for her to make. But instead of wanting to run, I find myself wanting to stay, to keep talking, to see what other uncomfortable truths she might help me uncover.

“Dance with me,” I say instead of responding to her observation.

She glances around the bar, which has a small dance floor near the back where a few couples are swaying to the jazz trio that’s been playing since we sat down. “I should probably get back to my friends soon.”

“One dance.” I stand up and extend my hand. “Then you can getback to your celebration.”

She looks at my hand for a long moment, and I can practically see her weighing the decision. The smart thing would be to say no, to go back to her friends, to keep this as just a pleasant conversation with a stranger. But there’s something in her eyes that tells me she wants to continue this too.

“One dance,” she agrees, placing her hand in mine.

The moment our palms touch, I know I’m in trouble. Not just because of the obvious attraction, though Christ, that’s there in spades, but because of something deeper. This woman sees me. Not Reed Hendrix the hockey player, not the guy with the nice watch and the recognizable name, but me. The person behind all of that.

As I lead her to the dance floor, I can’t help but think that one dance isn’t going to be nearly enough.

3

The moment Reed’s arms come around me, I understand why people write songs about dancing. His hand settles on the small of my back, warm and sure, while his other hand engulfs mine completely. We’re not doing anything fancy, just swaying to the music, but there’s something intimate about the way he holds me, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t keep me close.

“Your friends are watching,” he murmurs near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

I glance over his shoulder and catch sight of Mia, Sarah, and Emma huddled together at our table, not even pretending to look anywhere else. Emma gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up when she sees me looking.

“They’re not exactly subtle,” I admit, turning back to find Reed’s eyes on me. This close, I can see flecks of green in the blue, can count the faint lines around his eyes that speak of years of life I have no idea about.

“Good friends?” he asks.

“The best. They’ve been plotting this weekend for months, convinced I needed to ‘cut loose’ after finishing my dissertation.” I realize how that sounds and quickly add, “Not that this was part of their plan. The cutting loose part, I mean. This is just...”

“Happy accident?”

“Yes.” I smile.

The song shifts to something slower, and Reed pulls me closer. Not inappropriately so, but enough that I can feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, can smell that clean scent that’s been driving me slightly crazy since I first approached him at the bar.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Shoot.”

“What’s the longest you’ve ever spent not thinking about work?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when’s the last time you went a whole day—hell, a whole hour—without thinking about your research or your dissertation or what comes next?” His thumb traces a small circle on my back, and I have to concentrate to focus on his words instead of the way that simple touch is making me feel. “Because I’ve been watching you tonight, and you seem like someone who thinks a lot.”

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