Page 71 of Off-Limits as Puck

Someone was watching. Waiting. Building a file to use against us.

My phone rings again. This time, it’s her.

I stare at her name and let it go to voicemail. What could we possibly say now? The bomb’s exploded. The casualties are being counted.

She doesn’t leave a message.

At my apartment, I pour a drink I don’t touch and watch my life implode in real-time on social media. The takes are brutal. I’ma predator who targeted vulnerable staff. She’s an opportunist who seduced a player. We’re both symbols of everything wrong with professional sports.

None of them know the truth. That she made me want to be better. That I made her want to be real. That we fell in love in all the wrong ways at all the wrong times.

Another unknown number texts.

Unknown:48 hours to respond or the equipment shed photos go wide.

Equipment shed. Where she came undone in my arms. Where we stopped pretending for fifteen desperate minutes.

I forward it to Patricia and pour another drink I won’t touch. Outside, snow starts falling, covering Chicago in white like it’s trying to hide our sins.

Somewhere in this city, Chelsea’s facing her own destruction. Her father. The board. The death of everything she worked for.

All because I couldn’t stay away.

All because she couldn’t either.

The house of cards we built so carefully has collapsed, and we’re both buried in the rubble.

28

There’s nothing quite like watching your life explode in real-time on a seventy-inch conference room screen.

The photo stares back at me in high definition—grainy but damning, taken outside the team hotel in Minneapolis three weeks ago. Reed’s hand on my lower back. My face turned up to his like a flower seeking sun. The space between us intimate enough to suffocate the entire room.

“This is a disaster,” Patricia says, scrolling through her tablet. “It’s already trending on three platforms.”

I’m sitting at the head of the conference table like I’m the defendant at my own trial. Which, I suppose, I am. The emergency meeting was called the moment the photo hit—board members dialing in from their corner offices, lawyers taking notes, my entire career dissected by people who’ve never had their worst moment broadcast to the world.

“The optics are terrible,” Board Chairman Morrison’s voicecrackles through the speaker. “Coach’s daughter. Player therapy. Conflict of interest doesn’t begin to cover this.”

My father hasn’t spoken since we sat down. He’s stationed himself across from me, arms crossed, disappointment radiating from him like heat from asphalt. When our eyes meet, I see everything I’ve destroyed reflected back—his reputation, the team’s integrity, whatever fragile relationship we’d managed to build.

“Dr. Clark,” Morrison continues, “perhaps you’d like to explain how this happened.”

The truth? I lost my mind the moment Reed Hendrix looked at me like I was worth the chaos. But that’s not what they want to hear.

“The photo appears to be from an away series,” I say carefully. “I was consulting on player wellness during travel.”

“At midnight? In what appears to be an intimate setting?”

“I—” My throat closes. Because what can I say? That we were arguing about boundaries we’d already destroyed? That five minutes after this photo was taken, he kissed me against the hotel’s brick wall while I tried to remember why we couldn’t have this?

“The timeline suggests ongoing contact outside therapeutic sessions,” Patricia adds, not looking at me. “Which violates multiple ethics policies.”

“How long has this been going on?” Morrison’s voice sharpens. “The relationship with Hendrix?”

Relationship. Like we had dinner dates and anniversary plans instead of stolen moments between professional obligations and family expectations.

“There is no relationship,” I lie smoothly. “Mr. Hendrix and Imaintained appropriate therapeutic boundaries throughout his treatment.”

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