Page 70 of Off-Limits as Puck

“What about Chelsea?” I ask.

“Dr. Clark,” Coach corrects coldly, “is no longer your concern.”

“Bullshit. This affects her more than—”

“You’re suspended.” The words hit like a slap shot. “Effective immediately. Pending investigation into conduct detrimental to the team.”

“Coach—”

“Get out. Security will escort you to clean out your locker. You’re banned from team facilities until further notice.”

“You can’t—”

“I can and I am.” He stands, every inch the authority figure who owns my career. “You wanted to play with fire, Hendrix? Congratulations. You burned it all down.”

I stand slowly, rage and regret warring in my chest. At the door, I pause.

“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “she tried to stay away. Thisis on me.”

“No,” Patricia says, already deep in crisis mode. “This is on both of you.”

Security’s waiting outside—Jenkins, who’s worked here twenty years and used to sneak me extra ice time as a rookie. He can’t meet my eyes as we walk to the locker room.

The team’s still on the ice, but support staff lines the hallways, phones out, documenting my walk of shame. Tomorrow it’ll be on every sports blog—” Hendrix Escorted Out After Scandal Breaks.”

In the locker room, I pack mechanically. Gear that’s been my life for eight years shoved into bags like evidence. My nameplate above the stall, my number, my existence here—all about to be erased because I couldn’t stay away from the one person who was off limits.

My phone buzzes constantly—reporters, teammates, numbers I don’t recognize. I ignore them all, focused on one thing: Chelsea’s still in the building somewhere, facing her own reckoning.

I’m almost to the exit when Weston appears, still in full gear.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Wasn’t going to lecture.” He falls into step beside me. “Just wanted to say—I get it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I saw how you looked at her. How she looked at you.” He pauses. “Sometimes the heart wants what it wants, consequences be damned.”

“Tell that to her career.”

“Nic—”

“I’ve got to go.” Security’s getting impatient. “Take care of theboys. And if you see her...”

“Yeah?”

But I don’t know how to finish. Tell her I’m sorry? That it was worth it? That I’d do it all again?

“Just make sure she’s okay,” I finish.

Outside, media vans are already gathering. I pull my cap low, duck into my car, and drive away from the only life I’ve known. My phone rings—Jerry, my agent, probably having seventeen heart attacks.

I don’t answer. Instead, I pull up the photo that’s destroying everything. Study it like game tape, looking for clues. Minneapolis. Three weeks ago. The night after a brutal loss when Chelsea happened to be at the team hotel for an away series.

We’d argued in the hallway about boundaries, about staying away. Then somehow ended up outside, her shivering in the cold while I tried to convince her that what we had was worth the risk.

The photo caught the moment I broke through her defenses. The moment before she kissed me like drowning. Before she pushed me away and ran back inside, leaving me in the Minnesota cold.

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