Page 47 of Off-Limits as Puck

“But does he make you feel alive?”

She goes still. “That’s not—”

“Does he make you laugh until you can’t breathe? Does he know you bite your lip when you’re thinking? Does he know about the freckle?”

“Stop.”

“Does he know you’re just using him to prove something? To me, to yourself, to—”

“At least I’m trying!” Her voice cracks. “At least I’m attempting normal instead of whatever this is. This... this violent orbit where we destroy each other a little more each time we collide.”

The words are accurate and devastating. Because she’s right. We are destroying each other. Have been since Vegas.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “We should stay away from each other.”

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe hurt. Like she expected me to fight harder.

“Yes,” she agrees. “We should.”

I help her load the bags of paperwork into her car in silence. When she drives away, I head inside instead of home. Back to my tape review, my strategies, my carefully constructed hockey life that makes sense.

This hurts more than anger. More than jealousy. This quiet acceptance that we’re wrong for each other, that Jake with his normal smile and appropriate boundaries is what she needs.

My phone buzzes. A text from Dez thanking me again for the morning session, saying he’s never played better. At least something good came from this disaster of a day.

20

Sometimes the most dangerous moments come disguised as quiet ones, like therapy sessions that actually work.

Reed shows up ten minutes early, which should have been my first warning. He’s usually exactly on time—not late enough to be disrespectful, not early enough to seem eager. But today he’s in my waiting area, staring at his hands like they hold answers to questions he hasn’t asked yet.

“Come in,” I say, professional as always despite the way my pulse jumps at seeing him.

He follows me into the office, taking his usual chair. The one he’d commandeered that first session, refusing the distance of sitting across the desk. Today, though, he looks smaller somehow. Tired in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion.

“How are you?” I ask, settling into my own chair with notebook ready.

“Fine.”

“Try again.”

He looks up, surprised by the directness. “I thought you wanted professional distance.”

“I want honest therapy. There’s a difference.” I set down my pen. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Haven’t.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes my fingers itch to fix it. “My brother called.”

I wait, having learned that Reed fills silences when he’s ready, not when pushed.

“He’s in trouble again. Owes money to the wrong people. Again. Needs me to bail him out.” He laughs, but it’s sharp, bitter. “Again.”

“Tell me about your brother.”

“Matteo. Matty.” His expression softens. “Five years younger. Supposed to be the smart one. Full ride to MIT, engineering degree, the whole perfect path laid out.”

“What happened?”

“I happened.” He leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Made it to the NHL, started making real money. Suddenly baby brother didn’t need to study so hard. I’d take care of everything, right? Why struggle when big brother’s signing million-dollar contracts?”

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