Page 82 of Off-Limits as Puck

The bar’s TV is tuned to ESPN, volume low but closed captions running. They’re doing a segment on “professional boundaries in sports,” using our situation as a case study. Chelsea’s headshot appears next to mine—her official team photo where she looks composed and untouchable. Nothing like the woman who came apart in my arms.

“Tragic,” someone says behind me. “Really thought she looked classier than that.”

I turn slowly. Three guys in expensive suits, probably finance bros judging by their aggressive networking energy. The one talking is tall, blond, everything I used to be before life kicked my teeth in.

One of the guys laugh and mumbles something I don’t hear.

“The therapist. Clark, right?” He takes a sip of his craft cocktail, completely oblivious to the danger he’s walking into. “Seems professional. Smart. Turns out she’s just another puck bunny with daddy issues.”

Shot number five goes down like water.

“Coach’s daughter rebels by screwing the team troublemaker. Tale as old as time.” He laughs, his buddies joining in. “Bet she’s freaky too. All those uptight types are.”

I’m off my stool before conscious thought kicks in. My hand fistsin his designer shirt, slamming him back against the bar. Drinks crash to the floor. His friends scramble backward.

“What the fuck—”

“You don’t know her.” The words come out low, dangerous. “You don’t know shit about her.”

“Jesus, dude, relax—”

“Relax?” I shove him harder, and he goes down, taking a barstool with him. “You want to talk about her like she’s some piece of ass? We can discuss it outside.”

Security’s moving before his friends can react. Two guys built like bouncers, all muscle and no patience for drunk athletes making scenes. But I’m beyond caring about consequences, beyond thinking past the red haze of rage.

The blond guy scrambles to his feet, nose bloody, suit ruined. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Yeah. I am.”

I swing at him again, but security’s faster. Strong hands grab my arms, lifting me off the ground like I’m furniture they’re rearranging. The room spins—tequila and adrenaline making everything blur together.

“Out,” one of them grunts. “Now.”

They drag me through the crowd, past phones recording everything, past witnesses who’ll post this on social media before I’m even outside. Another viral moment. Another nail in my career’s coffin.

The alley behind the bar is cold, wet from earlier snow. They deposit me next to a dumpster with all the ceremony of taking out trash.

“Stay out,” the bigger one warns. “Come back, and we call cops.”

They disappear back inside, leaving me alone with my bleedingknuckles and the taste of regret. My phone’s buzzing again—probably Jerry having an aneurysm over something else.

I don’t check my phone. Don’t want to see the damage, the commentary, the slow-motion replay of my latest meltdown. Instead, I lean against the brick wall and try to remember why I thought defending Chelsea’s honor would help anyone.

Because that’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Defending her against assholes who think they know her story. Who think she’s just another cautionary tale about women who want too much.

The irony’s not lost on me. Chelsea’s career is destroyed, and I’m still out here fighting her battles like some white knight with anger management issues. Like violence can fix what we’ve broken.

My phone finally stops buzzing. Then immediately starts again.

Jerry’s name flashes on the screen, and I know I can’t avoid this conversation forever.

“Before you say anything—”

“You’re done,” he says without preamble. “Not suspended. Done. That video’s already trending. Three separate angles of you assaulting some investment banker over your therapist girlfriend.”

“Jesus Christ. Already? What the fuck. It’s been like five minutes! He was talking shit about—”

“I don’t care if he was pissing on her grave. You can’t assault civilians, Reed. Jesus Christ, what were you thinking?”

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