Page 7 of Off-Limits as Puck

“And now I understand why everyone was staring at you.” She studies my face. “Sixty-two penalty minutes last season. The articles make you sound like you spend more time fighting than actually playing hockey.”

Shit. This is the part where most women either get turned on by the idea of dating a “bad boy” or decide I’m too much trouble. I’ve never been able to tell which is worse.

“That’s... accurate,” I say carefully. “I’m what they call an enforcer. I protect the smaller guys on my team, which usually means dropping the gloves when someone takes a cheap shot at them.”

“You fight people for a living.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” I set down my spoon, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Look, I know how that sounds—”

“Reed.” She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “I’m not judging. I’m actually just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How someone who fights people for a living can be this gentle.” Her thumb traces across my knuckles, and I realize that despite the scars there, despite whatever Google has told her, she’s notpulling away. “The way you asked me to dance instead of just grabbing me. The way you keep checking to make sure I’m comfortable. The way you ordered my drink without making me feel like I owed you something.”

Christ. She’s doing it again—seeing straight through me to parts I didn’t even know were visible.

“You’re dangerous,” I tell her again.

“So you keep saying.” Her smile is soft, almost shy. “What makes me dangerous?”

I exhale. “You make me want to tell you things. Like how I hate fighting, but I’m good at it so that’s what I do. How sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d been born smaller, if I’d had to rely on skill instead of size.” I turn my hand over under hers, threading our fingers together. “How I’ve been in Vegas for the day, and this is the first time I’ve felt like myself instead of just Reed Hendrix, number forty-seven.”

“Who is Reed Hendrix when he’s not number forty-seven?”

It’s a simple question with a complicated answer. I’ve been number forty-seven for so long, I’m not sure I remember who I was before.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think I’d like to find out.”

She squeezes my hand. “For what it’s worth, I like this version of you. The one sitting across from me eating gelato and asking thoughtful questions.”

She takes another bite of her gelato, considering her words. “You know what I see when I look at you? I see someone who’s spent years taking care of everyone else, putting his body on the line for his teammates, being the bad guy so they don’t have to be. That’s not violent, Reed. That’s sacrificial.”

No one has ever described my role that way before. Usually it’s“goon” or “enforcer” or “the guy who can’t actually play hockey.” Hearing Chelsea frame it as sacrifice, as protection... it changes something fundamental in how I see myself.

“You’re going to be really good at your job,” I tell her.

“I hope so.” She glances around at the bustling street, then back at me. “This is nice. I can’t remember the last time I sat somewhere and just... talked. Without an agenda or a timeline or somewhere else I needed to be.”

“Speaking of timelines...” I check my watch, even though I don’t want this night to end. “It’s getting late. I should probably get you back to your hotel.”

“Actually...” She hesitates, and I can see her internal debate playing out across her face. “My hotel is on the other end of the Strip. Your friends mentioned you’re staying at the Bellagio, right? That’s just a few blocks from here.”

I nod, not sure where she’s going with this.

“Would it be completely inappropriate if I said I don’t want this night to end?” The words come out in a rush, like she’s forcing herself to say them before she loses her nerve. “I mean, just to talk more.”

Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a bad idea. She’s not some random hookup. She’s smart and genuine and the kind of woman who deserves better than a one-night stand with a guy who’ll be on a plane in thirty-six hours. But the selfish part of me, the part that’s been starved for real connection for longer than I care to admit, is already nodding.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I need you to know that if you come up to my room, I’m going to want to kiss you. And I’m probably not going to want to stop there.”

The honesty surprises both of us. Chelsea’s cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t look away. There’s something bold andvulnerable in her gaze that makes my chest tight.

“Okay,” she breathes.

I’m out of my chair before she’s finished speaking, dropping money on the table and reaching for her hand. “Come on.”

The walk back to the Bellagio feels like it takes forever and no time at all. Her hand is warm in mine, and I can feel the slight tremor in her fingers that tells me she’s nervous. But she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t change her mind, doesn’t do any of the sensible things she probably should do.

---