Page 48 of Off-Limits as Puck

“That’s not your fault.”

He meets my eyes. “I enabled him. Gave him money whenever he asked. Didn’t ask questions when he dropped out, when he started hanging around tracks and card rooms. I was too busy being the big shot to notice my brother was drowning.”

The pain in his voice cracks something open in me. “The fight. The one that got you suspended.”

“Rookie mentioned something about Matty. Mentioned hisheroin problem. Said that I was bound for that.” His fists clench. “I lost it. Couldn’t stand hearing him talked about like that.”

“You were protecting him.”

“I was protecting myself. My guilt. My failure.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I couldn’t fix Matty, so I beat McKinnon instead. Real healthy coping mechanism.”

The vulnerability in his admission takes my breath away. This isn’t the cocky player who’s been driving me crazy. This is just Reed, stripped of armor and bleeding guilt.

“Family expectations are complicated,” I hear myself say. “The weight of them can crush you even when they come from love.”

“Speaking from experience?”

I should deflect. Redirect to him. Instead, I find myself nodding. “My father had my entire life planned before I could walk. Piano lessons at four. Mandarin at five. Academic competitions every weekend. Second place was failure. B+ was catastrophic.”

“Jesus.”

“He loves me,” I continue, surprising myself with the need to explain. “In his way. He wanted me to be exceptional, to never struggle like he did as an immigrant. But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to want things for myself. Everything was about meeting expectations, exceeding benchmarks, being perfect.”

“Is that why you ran? In Vegas?”

The question should feel like an ambush, but it doesn’t. Not today, in this strange bubble of honesty.

“Partly. You were so...” I search for words. “Unplanned. I don’t do unplanned. I don’t do reckless or impulsive or—”

“Real?”

“Intense,” I correct. “Everything about that night was intense.And then the alcohol wore off, and I could see my life waiting—structured, scheduled, safe. You didn’t fit anywhere in that life.”

“I can… fit if you let me.”

It’s not a question. I nod anyway, throat tight.

“I wrote my number,” I admit. “My real number. Spent weeks, months, waiting for a call that never came.”

“I tried every combination.” He laughs softly. “Weston staged an intervention when he caught me calling random numbers hoping to hear your voice.”

The image breaks my heart a little. Both of us waiting, wanting, separated by smudged ink and missed chances.

“My father would lose his mind if he knew,” I say. “His daughter and a player. The scandal, the distraction, the lack of control.”

“Is that what I am? A lack of control?”

“You’re chaos,” I tell him honestly. “Beautiful, terrifying chaos. And I’ve spent my whole life avoiding chaos.”

“How’s that working out?”

“I’m dating a man who bores me to tears because he’s safe. I schedule every minute of my day so there’s no room for spontaneity. I have three therapists on speed dial because I therapize myself constantly.” I meet his eyes. “So not great, actually.”

He shifts forward, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. “Can I tell you something?”

“Isn’t that what therapy’s for?”

“I mean something real. Not therapy real. Just... real.”

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