Page 44 of Off-Limits as Puck

“My mistake. Must have been distracted.” His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Happens sometimes when you see things you weren’t expecting.”

He walks away, leaving scorch marks on my composure. Jake chatters about something—the weather? sports medicine? —but I’m not listening. I’m watching Reed’s retreating back and trying not to remember how those shoulders felt under my nails.

That night, I end up at the hotel bar where the team gathers sometimes for a weekly dinner out. More team comradery stuff. I tell myself I’m here to connect with the staff, to be a supportive part of the organization. Not to prove anything to anyone.

Jake finds me within minutes, sliding into the booth with two drinks and that easy smile. We talk about safe things—his last job, my research, anything but the elephant in the room wearing number 47.

“You know,” Jake says after his second beer, “I get the feeling I’m missing something here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hendrix hasn’t taken his eyes off us since I sat down.” He nods toward the bar where Reed stands with teammates, ostensibly listening to their conversation but clearly focused elsewhere. “Either he’s really protective of the team therapist, or—”

“There’s no ‘or.’” The lie tastes bitter. “Some players are just... intense about staff boundaries.”

“Right.” Jake doesn’t look convinced, but he’s too polite to push. “Well, his intensity is making me uncomfortable. Want to get out of here? I know a quieter place down the street.”

I should go with him. Should remove myself from this situation,from Reed’s burning gaze, from the temptation to do something stupid like march over there and—

“I should actually head home,” I say instead. “Early morning.”

Jake takes the rejection gracefully, walking me to my car like a gentleman. He doesn’t try to kiss me goodnight, just squeezes my hand and promises to text about that dinner.

I sit in my car for a full minute, keys in the ignition, telling myself to drive away. Instead, I look back at the bar entrance just as Reed emerges, alone.

He sees me immediately, of course. We stare at each other across the parking lot, the distance between us charged with everything we’re not saying. He takes one step toward my car, and I panic, starting the engine and pulling out before he can get closer.

In my rearview mirror, I watch him stand there, hands in his pockets, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.

My phone buzzes at a red light.

DO NOT ANSWER: Jake seems nice

DO NOT ANSWER: Boring but nice

DO NOT ANSWER: Is that what you want now? Nice?

I throw my phone in my purse and drive home, where I’ll pretend to sleep while really thinking about the difference between nice and necessary, between what I should want and what I crave.

Jake will text tomorrow about dinner. I’ll probably say yes because I need to prove I can. Reed will show up to his session, and we’ll pretend the equipment shed never happened while the memory burns between us.

And somewhere in the space between nice and necessary, I’ll keep losing pieces of myself to a man who looks at me like I’mboth his salvation and his downfall.

19

Jealousy tastes like copper and skates like violence, so I channel both into the ice until my edges could cut glass.

Five a.m. practice isn’t mandatory, but I’m here anyway, running drills in the empty rink like I can outskate the image of Chelsea smiling at that trainer. Jake. Even his name sounds like underwear model bullshit. Jake with his easy smile and normal job and ability to take her for coffee without it being a federal fucking incident.

I slam puck after puck into the net, each shot harder than the last. The sound echoes in the empty arena—rubber on ice, on steel, on boards. A rhythm that almost drowns out my thoughts.

Almost.

“Trying to murder the net?”

I turn to find Dez Lawrence hovering at the rink entrance, gear bag in hand. The rookie I knocked around in practice last week, looking uncertain but determined.

“Just warming up,” I say, firing another shot that rings thecrossbar.

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