Page 75 of Off-Limits as Puck

Pure, clarifying rage at being manipulated, managed, and maneuvered by people who saw my feelings as leverage and my career as collateral damage.

They want to destroy me? Fine.

But they’re about to learn that Chelsea Clark doesn’t go down quietly.

And she sure as hell doesn’t go down alone.

29

Apparently, Coach was wrong for suspending me on the spot and having security escort me out like I’m a dangerous weapon. Now I’m walking into the locker room because they called me back to talk further about these issues. Patricia told me I’m not suspended and demanded that I forgive Coach for speaking out of terms. After all, I admitted to doing things with his daughter, and that made it personal.

Well, this walk into the locker room feels like stepping into a funeral where I’m both the corpse and the killer.

The usual pre-practice chaos dies the second I appear. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Equipment bags suddenly become fascinating. Twenty-eight guys who’ve seen me naked more times than any girlfriend avoid eye contact like I’m radioactive.

“Morning, sunshine,” Weston says, the only one brave enough to acknowledge my existence. “How’s life as a social mediasensation?”

“Fucking fantastic.” I drop my gear bag harder than necessary. “Really living the dream.”

The silence stretches like ice before a crack. I can feel them watching, waiting, probably taking bets on whether I’ll explode or implode first. Stevens sits three stalls down, sporting a black eye that matches my mood. He hasn’t looked at me since I walked in.

“So,” Lawrence pipes up from across the room, apparently unaware that silence is golden when your teammate’s life is burning down. “Heard you screwed the boss’s daughter and torched the season.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

“What did you say?”

“Just wondering if it was worth it.” He grins like he’s making casual conversation instead of signing his own death warrant. “I mean, she’s hot, but damn, man. You really nuked everything for some therapist pussy.”

I move without thinking. One second I’m standing by my locker, the next my fist connects with Lawrence’s jaw and we’re both going down, taking half the equipment with us.

He fights back—kid’s got more balls than brains—and we’re rolling across the floor, throwing punches like it’s playoffs instead of practice. Blood spatters the concrete. Mine or his, doesn’t matter. The violence feels good, clean, like finally having an outlet for all the rage I’ve been swallowing.

“BREAK IT UP!”

Hands pull us apart. Weston and Thompson hauling me back while Rodriguez restrains Dez. The rookie’s nose is streaming blood, and my knuckles are split again. Same wounds, differentday.

“What the fuck, Hendrix?” Weston shoves me against my locker. “Are you insane?”

“He had it coming.”

“For what? Saying what everyone’s thinking?”

“For talking about her like she’s—” I stop myself before saying what Chelsea is to me. Because these assholes don’t deserve to know. Don’t deserve to hear her name in their mouths.

“Like she’s what?” Lawrence spits blood onto the floor. “Your girlfriend? News flash, asshole—she’s not. She’s the coach’s daughter who you fucked and got caught. End of story.”

I lunge for him again, but Weston blocks me, hands flat against my chest.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t prove them right about you being out of control.”

“I am out of control,” I snarl. “Have been since the day she walked into that meeting room.”

“Then get in control. Because this?” He gestures at the blood, the scattered equipment, the teammates staring at me like I’m a wild animal. “This is exactly what they want. Proof that you’re the same old Reed who solves problems with his fists.”

Coach Clark appears in the doorway, takes in the carnage, and his face goes purple.

“Hendrix! My office! NOW!”

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