Page 60 of Off-Limits as Puck

I’m reviewing session notes when he enters my office, closing the door with the kind of controlled precision that made him a legendary coach and a terrible parent. He doesn’t sit. Chris Clark never sits when he can loom.

“We need to talk.”

Four words that have preceded every life-altering lecture since I was five and got a B+ in kindergarten art. I set down my pen carefully, arranging my face into the neutral mask he taught me.

“About?”

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”

“I have several clients. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Hendrix.”

The name lands between us like a live grenade. I keep my expression steady through years of practice.

“What about him?”

“He put Stevens in the hospital.”

“Stevens needed three stitches. Hardly the hospital.”

“Because of you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Players fight all the time—”

“Not like this.” He moves closer, and I’m five years old again as he tries to explain why silver medals aren’t good enough. “Stevens says Hendrix attacked him for mentioning your... dance at the gala.”

“Stevens is mistaken.”

“Is he? Because Patricia tells me she had to kill photos of you two. Because half the staff is whispering about the coach’s daughter and the problem player. Because my own assistant asked if she should be preparing for a scandal.”

Each word is a scalpel, cutting deeper than the last. I stand, needing to not feel small.

“There’s no scandal. I danced with a player at a charity event. That’s all.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me there’s nothing between you and Hendrix.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “There’s nothing—”

“Don’t lie to me, Chelsea.” His control cracks, revealing the fury underneath. “I’ve watched you your entire life. I know every tell, every deflection. You’re involved with him.”

“I’m his therapist.”

“You’re compromised. And you’re putting everything at risk—your career, my reputation, this team’s stability—for what?Some player who can’t control his fists?”

“You don’t know him.”

The words escape before I can stop them, and his eyes narrow to slits.

“Clearly, neither do you. Did you know about his brother? The gambling debts? The connections to—”

“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I know all of it. Because he told me. In therapy. Which is confidential.”

“Therapy.” He laughs, but it’s ugly. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like my daughter is throwing away everything she’s worked for to fuck a hockey player.”

The vulgarity hits like a slap. My father never curses. Never loses control. Except now, with me, because I’ve finally disappointed him beyond recovery.

“Get out,” I whisper.

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