Page 93 of Off-Limits as Puck

The headline makes tears instantly prick in my eyes.Damn it.I can’t help it. I’m so fucking happy he’s found something else. I prayed for this moment. I click through to the article despite knowing better, torturing myself with details about his “fresh start” and “new opportunities in hockey.” There’s a photo of him at the signing ceremony—suit and tie, professional smile, looking like someone who’s moved on completely.

“I’m excited for this new chapter,” Hendrix said in a statement. “Boston offers the chance to focus purely on hockey without outside distractions.”

Outside distractions. That’s what I am to him. now. A distraction he’s putting an ocean between himself and, like I’m a bad habit he needs geography to break.

My four o’clock finally arrives. Marcus, a college senior convinced his roommate is stealing his food. We spend forty-five minutes discussing the psychology of communal living and whether passive-aggressive note-leaving constitutes healthy conflict resolution.

By six, I’m done pretending to care about other people’s small problems. I lock up the office and head to the grocery store, because this is my life now. Buying dinner for one and pretending domestic routine can fill the void where my ambition used to live.

The Whole Foods is busy, filled with young professionals buying organic everything and families navigating dinner negotiations with toddlers. I’m in the wine aisle—my most frequent destination these days—when I hear someone gasp.

“Oh my God, is that her?”

I turn, hoping they’re talking about someone else, but three women in yoga pants are staring at me with the kind of recognition that makes my skin crawl.

“It is! The therapist who slept with that hockey player!”

“The coach’s daughter?”

“I saw her picture everywhere. What a scandal.”

They’re not even trying to whisper. Other shoppers turn to look, phones appearing like vultures sensing carrion. In Phoenix. Six weeks later. Two thousand miles from Chicago, and I’m still thewoman who fucked her client and destroyed her career.

“Excuse me,” the tallest one says, approaching with phone already recording. “Aren’t you Dr. Chelsea Clark? From the Outlaws thing?”

“I’m sorry, you have me confused with someone else.”

“No, I definitely recognize you. My husband’s a huge hockey fan. We followed the whole story.” She’s closer now, phone lens capturing my humiliation in real-time. “So what’s it like being a home-wrecker? Was the sex worth destroying a team?”

“I—”

“I mean, he was hot, right? That Hendrix guy? I get it. But sleeping with your client? That’s just trashy.”

Trashy. Like I’m some porn star instead of a woman with a doctorate who made one catastrophically stupid choice about where to put her heart.

“Please stop recording me.”

“It’s a public place. I can record whatever I want.” Her smile is vicious, the kind women perfect when they smell weakness. “Maybe you should have thought about privacy before you became a homewrecker.”

“I didn’t wreck any homes.”

“No? What about your father’s reputation? The team? All those players whose lives you disrupted because you couldn’t keep your legs closed?”

I drop my wine. The bottle shatters against the floor, red spreading across white tile like accusation. The sound draws more attention, more phones, more witnesses to my ongoing humiliation.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” A store employee appears with a mop, professional concern masking obvious recognition.

“Fine. I’m fine.” I’m backing away from the women, from their cameras, from the growing crowd of people who know exactly who I am and what I’ve done. “I need to go.”

I abandon my cart and flee, practically running through the parking lot to my car. Behind me, I hear laughter and the unmistakable sound of social media uploads—videos that will probably be trending by morning.

“OMG guys, just ran into the hockey scandal therapist at Whole Foods! She’s hiding in Phoenix now!”

“Confirmed: Dr. Homewrecker is living in Arizona. Still looks like a slut!”

“Remember when this bitch destroyed the Outlaws? Karma’s real!”

In my car, I sit shaking for ten minutes before I can trust myself to drive. This is my life now. This is who I am forever—the cautionary tale, the punchline, the woman who thought she could have it all and lost everything instead.

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