Page 81 of Off-Limits as Puck

“How many?”

“I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”

“Investigations.” I laugh, but it’s bitter. “That’s what I am now. An investigation.”

She stands, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision. “I should go.”

“Yeah. You should.”

At the door, she pauses. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said about love being worth the chaos. Even if my job is to minimize that chaos.”

“Your job is to bury me quietly so the team can move on.”

“My job is to protect everyone involved. Including you.”

After she leaves, I double-lock the door and lean against it, shaking. The wine that tasted smooth ten minutes ago now burns like acid in my stomach. Another ally revealed as an enemy. Another person treating my life like a problem to be solved.

My phone buzzes. Reed’s messages still waiting for a response.

This time, I type without thinking.

Me:Don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I’m not worth it.

But before I can send it, another message appears:

Unknown:Dr. Clark. Time to talk. 12 hours remaining.

Unknown:Choose wisely.

I delete my message to Reed and stare at the threats from our blackmailer. Twelve hours to decide what happens next. Twelve hours to choose between protecting him and protecting myself.

Twelve hours to figure out if love really is worth the chaos it creates.

Or if sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for someone is let them save themselves.

My apartment feels colder somehow, like the walls are closing in. Outside, snow starts falling again, covering Chicago in white.

Covering everything we’ve destroyed in something clean and new.

But some stains don’t wash out, no matter how much snow falls.

And some choices can’t be undone, no matter how much youwant to take them back.

31

Tequila tastes like terrible decisions, which makes it the perfect drink for watching my life implode in real-time.

I’m three shots deep at some upscale bullshit bar in River North, the kind of place where investment bankers go to feel dangerous and hockey players go to feel normal. Neither is working for me tonight. All I feel is raw, like someone took sandpaper to my nerve endings and forgot to stop.

The crowd’s thin for a Thursday night—suits unwinding after another day of making money, a few women in designer dresses pretending they don’t know who I am while absolutely knowing who I am. My baseball cap’s pulled low, but it’s useless. Everyone’s seen the photo by now. Everyone knows I’m the asshole who fucked the coach’s daughter and torched his team.

“Another?” The bartender’s young, probably fresh out of college, trying to be professional while obviously wanting to ask about the scandal.

“Keep ‘em coming.”

My phone’s been buzzing all night. Jerry calling every twenty minutes like a concerned parent. Teammates in the group chat pretending everything’s normal. Unknown numbers fishing for quotes. And nothing—absolutely fucking nothing—from Chelsea.

Shot number four burns less than the first three. Good. I’m aiming for numb.

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