Page 97 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “There were moments.”

“Can you tell me about them?”

“I was mentoring a rookie. Kid named Dez. Struggling with confidence, second-guessing every move. I worked with him early mornings, taught him to trust his instincts instead of overthinking everything.”

“That sounds meaningful.”

“It was. He became a different player. More confident, more creative. Less afraid of making mistakes.”

“What changed? Why did those moments stop?”

I know the answer. Have known it for months but haven’t been able to say it out loud. Because saying it makes it real, makes it something I have to deal with instead of just survive.

“I started therapy,” I say finally. “With the team psychologist.Dr. Chelsea Clark.”

Her name hangs in the air like confession. The first time I’ve said it out loud since Chicago, since everything fell apart.

“And how did that affect your work with Dez?”

“Made me better. Not just as a mentor, but as a person. She helped me understand my anger, my patterns, why I always chose violence over vulnerability.” I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “I was becoming someone I actually liked. Someone worth being around.”

“What happened to that person?”

“I fell in love with my therapist.”

The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, like admitting I have brown hair or skate left-handed. But saying them feels like bleeding.

“And that changed things?”

“It destroyed things. Her career, my career, the team chemistry. Everything I touched turned to shit because I couldn’t separate what I wanted from what was professional.”

“Do you regret it?”

The question I ask myself every morning. Every night. Every moment in between when I’m not actively distracting myself with hockey or kids or anything that doesn’t involve thinking about Chelsea’s hands in my hair, her laugh against my neck, the way she looked at me like I was worth saving.

“I regret how it ended,” I say carefully. “I regret the cost. For her especially.”

“But not the feelings themselves?”

“No. Not the feelings.”

Dr. Walsh makes another note, expression neutral. “It soundslike you’re grieving.”

“Grieving?” I snicker.

“For whom you were becoming with her. For the relationship you couldn’t have. For the version of your life that might have been possible if circumstances were different.”

Grieving.Perfect word for this hollow ache in my chest, this constant sense that something essential is missing.

“How do you grieve something that was never supposed to exist in the first place?”

“The same way you grieve anything else. You feel it, you process it, and eventually, you find a way to carry it that doesn’t destroy you.”

After the session, I sit in my car in the parking lot, thinking about grief and growth and kids who think mistakes are practice. My phone buzzes—text from Sophie’s mom, thanking me for helping her daughter love hockey again.

Ms. Peterson:Sophie won’t stop talking about practice. You’ve given her confidence I haven’t seen in months. Thank you.

I stare at the message, remembering what Maria said about people needing someone to believe in them. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe being good for these kids, being part of their joy and growth, is worth more than whatever I lost in Chicago.

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