Page 78 of Off-Limits as Puck

“She knew exactly what she was doing.”

“Daddy’s little princess wanted some rough trade.”

“Professional my ass - she’s just another puck bunny with a degree.”

I close the laptop before I can read more, but the words are already burned behind my eyelids. Two years of grad school, four years of undergrad, a doctorate in psychology—and I’ll be remembered as the coach’s daughter who couldn’t keep her legs closed.

My apartment feels too small suddenly. These walls that used to represent independence now feel like a jail cell. Everything’s tainted—the kitchen where I planned sessions, the bedroom where I dreamed of being respected, the bathroom mirror that shows a woman I don’t recognize anymore.

The formal email from Patricia arrived this morning.

Dr. Clark,

In light of recent events, the Board of Directors requests your formal resignation effective immediately. A severance package will be provided contingent upon your signing the attached non-disclosure agreement.

We appreciate your service to the organization.

Patricia Holbrook, General Manager

Appreciate my service. Like I was a coffee machine they’rereplacing, not a human being they’re discarding because I became inconvenient.

I haven’t opened the NDA yet. Don’t want to see what they’re willing to pay for my silence, what details they’re desperate to keep buried. But the message is clear: disappear quietly, and maybe I’ll land somewhere else eventually. Fight this, and they’ll make sure I never work in professional sports again.

My father hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Radio silence from the man who controlled every aspect of my life until I dared to want something he didn’t approve of. The absence of his disappointment somehow feels worse than his presence.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not a reporter or a colleague or a stranger with opinions about my life choices.

It’s Reed.

Reed:They want me to cut you off publicly. Tell the world you meant nothing.

Reed:I’m not doing it.

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

I stare at the messages until they blur. He’s choosing me over hockey—the only thing that’s ever mattered to him. Choosing us over the career he’s spent his life building. And all I can think is how stupid that is, how he doesn’t understand that saving me isn’t worth destroying himself.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type and delete seventeen different responses:

You should save yourself.

It’s not worth it.

I’m not your responsibility.

I love you.

Run.

None of them feel right. How do you respond to someone willing to sacrifice everything for something that was doomed from the start? How do you tell them they’re making a mistake when their mistake is you?

Instead, I set the phone aside and bury my face in the throw pillow.

The crying comes in waves. Not pretty tears but ugly sobs that shake my whole body. Grief for the career I’ll never have. Rage at the system that punishes women for wanting. Fear of what comes next when the only life I’ve known crumbles to ash.

But underneath it all, a small voice whispers the truth I can’t admit aloud.I don’t regret him.Even knowing how it ends, I don’t regret Vegas, or the equipment shed or any of the stolen moments that felt more real than anything else in my scheduled existence.

A knock at my door makes me freeze. Reporters? My father come to deliver one final lecture? I ignore it, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave.

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