Page 77 of Off-Limits as Puck

The message sends before I can second-guess it. Then another.

Me:I’m not doing it.

Me:Whatever happens, I’m not throwing you away to save my career.

The responses don’t come. Not in five minutes, not in twenty. I stare at the screen until my eyes blur, waiting for anything—anger, gratitude, even acknowledgment that she got the messages.

Nothing.

Maybe she’s already moved on. Already accepted that this thing between us was temporary insanity disguised as love. Maybe she’s in Jake’s arms right now, being comforted by someone safe and appropriate and everything I’m not.

The thought makes me want to punch something again, but Weston’s words echo in my head:Get in control.

I drive home through Chicago streets that feel foreign now. Every billboard, every radio mention of the Outlaws reminds me that I’m about to lose the only life I’ve ever known. Hockey’s been my identity since I was four years old. Without it, what am I?

Just another ex-athlete with anger issues and a gambling addict for a brother.

At my apartment, I pour whiskey I don’t drink and stare at my phone until the screen goes dark. Still nothing from Chelsea. But there are seventeen missed calls from Jerry, my agent, probablyworking overtime to salvage something from this disaster.

I don’t call him back. Don’t want to hear about damage control and public image and all the ways I’ve fucked up my future. Instead, I sit in the dark and think about tomorrow’s press conference.

About standing in front of cameras and lying about the realest thing in my life. About calling Chelsea a mistake to save a career that’s already over.

About the choice between destroying her reputation or destroying myself.

My phone buzzes. For a split second, hope flares in my chest.

But it’s not Chelsea. It’s the unknown number.

Unknown: 24 hours, Hendrix. Hope she was worth it.

I forward it to Patricia without reading it twice. Whatever photos they have, whatever demands they’re making, it doesn’t matter anymore. The damage is done. Chelsea’s career is finished. My career’s hanging by a thread that’s about to snap.

All that’s left is choosing how we go down.

Together or apart.

The silence from her phone suggests she’s already made her choice.

But tomorrow at five PM, I’ll make mine.

And Chris Clark isn’t going to like it.

30

There’s something almost poetic about watching your reputation die in real-time on social media, if poetry can be written in screenshotted headlines and comment sections full of strangers calling you a slut.

I’m curled on my couch in yesterday’s clothes, laptop balanced on my knees, refreshing feeds like I’m checking for signs of life in a corpse. The photo’s everywhere now—ESPN, TMZ, local news outlets that usually stick to weather and traffic accidents. Each repost makes it grainier, more sordid, like watching myself decompose in pixels.

My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. Reporters wanting statements. Colleagues expressing “concern.” Numbers I don’t recognize fishing for gossip. I’ve turned off the ringer, but the screen keeps lighting up like a strobe light at my personal apocalypse.

Chicago Tribune Sports: “OUTLAWS THERAPIST IN INAPPROPRIATE RELATIONSHIP”

Deadspin: “When Keeping It Professional Goes Wrong”

Barstool: “Coach’s Daughter Scores with Problem Player - Team Chemistry Destroyed”

The last one includes a poll: “Who’s more at fault?” Sixty-seven percent blame me. Apparently, I’m a manipulative home-wrecker who seduced an innocent hockey player. The comments are even worse.

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