Page 43 of Off-Limits as Puck

I shake his hand, noting the firm grip, the maintained eye contact. Normal. Safe. Everything Reed isn’t.

“Dr. Chelsea Clark. Mental performance coach.”

“I know who you are.” His smile widens. “Your reputation precedes you. The team won’t shut up about their brilliant therapist who’s fixing their heads.”

“I don’t know about brilliant.”

“Modest too. Dangerous combination.” He leans against the window, looking down at practice. “So, Dr. Clark, do you make ahabit of hiding up here, or is today special?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m... observing from a strategic distance.”

“Strategic distance. I like that.” He turns that easy smile on me again. “Speaking of distance, how far is it to the nearest decent coffee? I’m still learning the area.”

Is he... flirting? It feels like flirting. Safe, normal, appropriate flirting with someone who doesn’t know how I sound when I come.

“There’s a place two blocks north,” I hear myself say. “Rosetta’s. Best espresso.”

“Any chance you’d want to show me? After practice? I promise to maintain strategic distance the entire time.”

I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries with all staff, not just the one who makes me lose my mind. But then I catch movement on the ice below—Reed, looking up at the office windows like he knows exactly where I am and who I’m talking to.

“Sure,” I say, loud enough that it feels like a declaration. “Coffee sounds good.”

Jake grins like he’s pleased. We make plans to meet in an hour, and he heads back to wherever athletic trainers go. I stay at the window, watching Reed slam a puck into the net with unnecessary force.

Coffee with Jake is... nice. He’s funny, charming, asks questions about my work that show genuine interest. He doesn’t make my pulse race or my skin burn. When he laughs, it doesn’t sound like home. When he accidentally brushes my hand reaching for sugar, I don’t feel anything but mild awkwardness.

“So,” he says over his second espresso, “I was hoping to do this again sometime. Maybe dinner instead of coffee?”

I open my mouth to politely decline, then remember Reed’s face when he saw us talking. Remember him saying this would happen again like it was a promise and a threat. Remember that I need to prove—to him, to myself—that I can maintain control.

“Dinner sounds nice.”

We’re walking back to the facility when the team is piling out to leave for the day. I quicken my pace, hoping to make it inside before—

“Doc!” Weston waves me over. “What do you have in the bag? Any treats?”

“I was just—”

“Getting coffee,” Reed’s voice cuts through as he approaches, gear bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes flick to Jake, then back to me, dark and unreadable. “Caffeine emergency?”

“Something like that.” I keep my voice level. “Everyone, this is Jake Morrison. New athletic trainer. Jake, the team.”

Reed shakes hand with him, and I swear I hear knuckles crack.

“Morrison,” Reed says slowly, like he’s tasting the name. “The guys mentioned you started yesterday.”

“That’s right. Dr. Clark was kind enough to show me a good coffee spot.”

“How generous of her.” Reed’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s always so... helpful with new staff.”

The tension is thick enough to choke on. Jake seems oblivious, but Weston’s looking between us like he’s watching a bomb countdown.

“We should get inside,” I say brightly. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Right.” Reed shoulders his bag. “See you at tomorrow’s session, Doc. 2 PM, right?”

“10 AM,” I correct.

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