Page 59 of Off-Limits as Puck

He leaves me alone in the gym, surrounded by scattered weights and my own blood. I sink onto a bench, head in my hands, tasting copper and consequence.

My phone buzzes. Chelsea.

Chelsea:Heard there was an incident. Are you okay?

I stare at the message, formal and concerned. Dr. Clark, not Chelsea. Like we didn’t spend yesterday texting about Vegas and blazers.

Me:Peachy.

Chelsea:That usually means the opposite with you.

Me:Learning my tells, Doc?

Chelsea:Your session is still scheduled for tomorrow. Unless you need to see medical first?

Me:I’m fine.

Me:Stevens had it coming.

Chelsea:Did he? Or was he just a convenient punching bag?

I don’t respond. She knows. Of course she knows. Probably knows I hit him because I couldn’t hit the real problem—this thing between us that’s poisoning everything else.

Me:See you tomorrow, Doc.

I turn off my phone before she can respond, grab my gear, and head home. Skip team dinner. Skip Weston’s three calls. Skip everything except the bottle of whiskey I pour but don’t drink, sitting in my dark apartment like some cliché of a broken athlete.

The whiskey stares at me, amber and patient. One drink would soften the edges. Two would blur Chelsea’s face in my mind. Three would make me forget why I can’t have her.

But I don’t drink. Haven’t since she walked through those doors. Getting drunk won’t fix this. Won’t change the fact that she’s with Jake, that I’m imploding, that tomorrow I have to sit in her office and pretend my skin doesn’t burn for her touch.

My knuckles throb. Stevens got in some good shots—my ribs will be a rainbow of bruises tomorrow. But the physical pain is nothing compared to this hollow ache in my chest.

Two months of progress, gone. The team looking at me like I’m a time bomb again. Coach questioning if I belong. All because I can’t control myself around Chelsea Clark.

The funny thing is, I was doing better. The mentoring, the controlled play, the therapy that actually worked—all of it was real. But it was real because of her. Because she saw something in me worth fixing. Because for the first time since Vegas, I wanted to be better for someone.

Now I’m worse than ever. Frozen on the ice, explosive off it. Caught between who I was and who I could be, with no idea how to move forward.

My apartment is too quiet. Just me and the whiskey and the ghosts of every bad decision I’ve made. I should call Weston, apologize to Stevens, try to salvage something from this disaster.

Instead, I sit in the dark and count the hours until I’ll see her again. Until I’ll sit in that chair and try not to think about the equipment shed. Until she’ll ask me about my feelings while I pretend the only feeling that matters isn’t her.

The whiskey remains untouched when I finally head to bed. Small victory in a day full of defeats.

But as I lie there, ribs aching and knuckles split, all I can think about is tomorrow. Ten AM. Her office. The black blazer with the buttons I want to undo with my teeth.

Professional, I promised.

Professional, she demanded.

Professional is starting to feel like another word for torture.

And I’m running out of ways to pretend it isn’t killing me.

24

My father doesn’t knock. Champions of disappointment never do.

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