Page 83 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I wasn’t.”

“No shit. You know what the league’s going to say? What every team’s going to think? That you’re uncoachable. Unstable. A liability who puts personal drama above professional obligations.”

“Maybe they’re right.”

“Maybe they are. But that doesn’t mean you have to prove it by beating up random strangers in bars.” His voice softens slightly. “Look, I’ve been working phones all day. There might—might—be options in Europe. Smaller leagues. Fresh start.”

“Europe?”

“KHL. Maybe Sweden if we can convince them this was a one-time thing. But Reed, this is your last shot. One more incident, and you’re selling vacuums door to door praying for a sale.”

He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me in an alley with my thoughts and the growing certainty that I’ve fucked up beyond repair.

The walk home takes longer than usual—partly because I’m drunk, partly because I keep stopping to lean against buildings when the world tilts too far sideways.

My apartment building’s lobby is empty except for the night security guard, who pretends not to recognize me. Good. I’m not in the mood for small talk or sympathy or whatever passes for human interaction when your life’s a public disaster.

The elevator ride to my floor feels like ascending to purgatory. Everything here reminds me of Chelsea—the hallway where we argued, my door where I stood watching her leave, the walls that separate my apartment from hers but never felt like enough distance.

I’m fumbling with my keys when footsteps echo down the hall. Heavy, purposeful. Probably a neighbor tired of my drama affecting property values.

“You look like shit.”

I turn to find Dez leaning against the wall, still in street clothes despite the late hour. The rookie who I mentored, who I taughtto trust his instincts. Now he’s here watching me fall apart like some cautionary tale.

“What are you doing here?”

“Damage control. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Coach wants to address the latest incident before it gets worse.” He studies my face, takes in the split lip and swollen knuckles. “Though I’m guessing it’s already worse.”

“Probably.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad. We’re talking anyway.” He pushes off the wall. “Your place or the hallway?”

I let us into my apartment, which still shows signs of Chelsea’s last visit. Overturned furniture I never bothered fixing. The kitchen counter where everything changed. Evidence of destruction everywhere but her.

Dez surveys the damage with rookie’s eyes that miss nothing. “Jesus, Nic. What happened here?”

“Life.”

“Try again.”

I pour water because my head’s already pounding, and tequila’s done enough damage for one night. Dez settles on my couch like he belongs here, like this is a normal social visit instead of an intervention.

“You know what’s funny?” he says after a moment. “Everyone keeps talking about how you destroyed the team. How you’re a distraction, a liability, all that bullshit.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You know what you are? You’re the guy whotaught me hockey could be more than just survival. Who showed me how to channel intensity into something useful instead of just destructive.”

“That was before—”

“Before what? Before you fell for someone you weren’t supposed to? Before you chose feeling something real over playing it safe?” He leans forward. “Nic, I’ve been watching this team for two years. You know when we played our best hockey?”

“When?”

---