Page 45 of Off-Limits as Puck

“At five in the morning?”

“You’re here too.”

“Yeah, but I suck. What’s your excuse?”

Despite everything, I almost smile. The kid’s got balls, showing up after I used him as a tackling dummy.

“Get dressed,” I tell him. “If you’re gonna be here, might as well work.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re running passing drills, and the kid’s worse than I thought. His hand-eye coordination is decent, but his positioning is garbage, and he telegraphs every move like he’s sending smoke signals.

“Stop thinking so hard,” I call after his fifth failed attempt at a simple give-and-go. “You’re playing chess when this is checkers.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been doing this since birth.”

“I’ve been doing this since I was four. There’s a difference.” I skate over, demonstrating the proper stance. “Look, you’re overthinking. Hockey’s instinct. The second you start analyzing, you’re already behind.”

“So what, just... feel it?”

“Yeah. Feel it.” Like I felt Chelsea come apart in my arms. Like I feel her absence now. “Trust your body to know what to do.”

We run it again. This time, Dez receives the pass cleanly, pivots without hesitation, and sends it back tape-to-tape.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

“There you go. Again.”

We work for another hour, and something shifts. Not just in his playing—though that improves dramatically—but in the airbetween us. The wariness fades, replaced by focus and maybe trust. By the time the rest of the team starts filtering in, Dez is moving like a different player.

“Thanks,” he says as we head to the locker room. “For this. After last week, I thought—”

“Last week I was an asshole. This week I’m trying to be less of one.”

Chelsea walks past the locker room entrance, coffee in hand, not looking our way. My chest tightens.

“Work in progress,” I admit.

Coach finds me after official practice, pulling me aside with an expression I can’t read.

“That was good work with Lawrence this morning.”

“You saw that?”

“I see everything.” He crosses his arms. “The kid’s been struggling. Confidence shot. What you did out there—that’s leadership.”

The word sits strange in my chest. Leadership. Not exactly what I’m known for.

“Just helping out,” I mumble.

“No, you were teaching. Mentoring. That’s what this team needs—veterans who give a damn about development.” He pauses. “It’s what you could be, Hendrix. If you get out of your own way.”

He leaves me standing there, processing. Through the window, I spot Chelsea in her office, and our eyes meet across the distance. Something flickers across her face—surprise? approval? —before she looks away.

The rest of the day is a careful dance of avoidance. I skip my session, sending a text about a phantom injury that she definitely doesn’t believe. She spends lunch with Jake in thecafeteria, laughing at something on his phone while I pretend not to watch from across the room.

“You’re pathetic,” Weston informs me, sliding into the seat beside me. “Just talk to her.”

“Who?”

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