Page 90 of Off-Limits as Puck

The Athletic: “Outlaws Consider Trading Troubled Winger”

Deadspin: “When Hockey Players Think with the Wrong Head”

Each headline is a small death. Twenty-four years old and already a cautionary tale, proof that talent without discipline is just expensive entertainment.

My phone buzzes. Weston’s name on the screen, probably calling with updates I don’t want to hear.

“How’d it go?” I answer without greeting.

“Lost 4-1. Sweeney got ejected for fighting. Welsh’s playing injured. Thompson looked like he was skating in quicksand.” His voice carries the exhaustion of someone carrying extra weight. “We miss you, man.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. Team’s falling apart. Chemistry’s gone. Everyone’s walking on eggshells, afraid to say the wrong thing.”

“About me?”

“About everything. You, Dr. Clark, the media circus. It’s like playing hockey in a minefield.”

The mention of Chelsea’s name hits harder than expected. A week since our last conversation, since she walked away from me in that empty locker room. Seven days of silence that feels like drowning.

“How is she?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Gone.”

The word lands like a slap shot to the chest. “Gone where?”

“No one knows. Cleaned out her apartment over the weekend. Left no forwarding address. Maddy says she’s not returning calls.”

Gone. Just like Vegas, just like every time things get too real. But this time feels different. Final. Like she’s not just leaving me, she’s leaving everything.

“Did she...” I struggle with the question. “Did she say anything? About me?”

“Nic—”

“I know it’s pathetic. I know she’s moved on. I just need to know if she said anything.”

Silence stretches across the line. When Weston speaks again, his voice is gentle.

“Maddy mentioned she seemed... empty. Like someone had hollowed her out. But she didn’t talk about you specifically.”

Empty. Perfect word for how I feel too. Like Chelsea took something essential when she left, some piece of me I didn’t know I needed until it was gone.

“Jerry wants me to take the Moscow offer,” I tell him.

“You going to?”

“Probably. Nothing left for me here.”

“There’s the team. Your career. The guys who need you to stopwallowing and come back.”

“The team doesn’t want me. My career’s toast. And the guys...” I pause, processing what he said about chemistry and minefields. “The guys are better off without my drama.”

“That’s the depression talking.”

“That’s reality talking.”

“Reality is we’re fucking terrible without you. Lawrence can’t fill your role. Stevens is useless when he’s angry. And Thompson—” He stops himself.

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