Page 10

My phone explodes with texts from Leah as I relay the disaster. Her caps-lock response would be funny if I wasn’t currently dying of mortification and inappropriate arousal.

I pull up Reed’s file again, reading with new context. The fights make sense now—all that intensity needs outlet. The reputation for being difficult, unmanageable, explosive. The recent suspensions and anger management requirements.

He’s a walking red flag wrapped in hockey gear and terrible timing.

A knock interrupts my spiral. My father enters, and because this day isn’t complicated enough, immediately asks if I know Hendrix.

“We’ve never met,” I say, which is true in the strictest sense. We never exchanged names, just bodily fluids and dawn regrets.

But he knows something’s off—Chris Clark didn’t become a legendary coach by missing tells. His warning about Reed being “one wrong move from being banned” lands like a threat and a prophecy.

After he leaves, I sit in my beautiful new office and contemplate faking my own death. It would be easier than spending the next season in mandatory proximity to the man who ruined me for all others.

Because that’s what he did, isn’t it? Every date, every kiss, every attempt at moving on has been measured against one night in Vegas. And they all fell short. How pathetic that the best sex of my life was with someone I can never touch again.

I stay late, hoping to avoid him in the parking lot. But when I finally emerge, there’s his car, engine running, waiting. Our eyes meet through windshields and two years of silence.

I should drive away. Instead, I lower my window.

“This can’t happen,” I say, needing him to understand.

He approaches with that predatory grace, hands carefully tucked away. We argue about the number. Christ, he tried every combination. And I hate the flutter in my chest at that revelation.

“That was then. This is now,” I insist, gripping the wheel to keep from reaching for him. “I’m your performance coach. You’re my client. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” He leans against my car, too close, smelling like ice and possibility. “You sure about that, Chelsea?”

The way he says my name should be illegal. It definitely violates several workplace policies.

“It’s Dr. Clark,” I correct, but my voice betrays me with its weakness. “And yes. I’m sure.”

“So tomorrow at ten, we’re just gonna sit in your office and pretend Vegas never happened?”

“Yes.”

“Pretend I don’t know how you sound when you—”

“Stop.” I cut him off before he can finish that sentence, before he can put words to memories I’ve been trying to suppress. “I could report you for harassment.”

“But you won’t.”

He’s right. I won’t. Because reporting him means explaining why his words affect me, means admitting to my father and Patricia and the entire organization that I’ve already crossed every line they warned me about.

We stare at each other, the weight of unfinished business crushing. He finally steps back, promising to “try to contain himself” at our ten o’clock session with a tone that suggests exactly the opposite.

I drive away but check the mirror more times than necessary. Back at my apartment, I pour wine with shaking hands and contemplate the spectacular mess I’ve walked into.

Leah calls while I’m on my second glass.

“So is Vegas boy still hot,” she says without preamble.

“Vegas boy is my client,” I correct. “My off-limits, professionally catastrophic client.”

“But he’s hot .”

“Irrelevant.”

“Chelsea.”

“Fine. He’s hot. He’s also completely off-limits, working through anger issues, and happens to be my first appointment tomorrow morning.”

“What are you going to do?”

I drain my glass. “My job. I’m going to be professional, helpful, and completely appropriate.”

“And if he brings up Vegas?”

“He already did. In the parking lot.”

“Chelsea!”

“Nothing happened. We just... established boundaries.”

“While eye-fucking each other?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“This is going to be so good,” she predicts cheerfully. “I can’t wait.”

After we hang up, I try to focus on preparing for tomorrow’s sessions. But every time I close my eyes, I see that smirk. Feel his eyes tracking me around the locker room. Remember the weight of him, the taste of him, the way he said my name like a prayer.

I pull up the intake forms, typing with unnecessary force:

Client Name: Reed Hendrix Presenting Issues: Anger management, impulse control, professional conduct Treatment Goals: To be determined Personal History:

I stare at the cursor blinking in the empty field. What do I write? “Client and therapist have previous intimate knowledge that compromises therapeutic relationship”? “Session may be derailed by unresolved sexual tension”? “Therapist is completely fucked”?

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown : Wear that black dress tomorrow

My heart stops. Then logic kicks in—he doesn’t have my number. This has to be someone else. A wrong number. A coincidence.

Unknown : The one from Vegas

Unknown : Or don’t. I’ve got a good imagination

I should block the number. Report it. Do literally anything other than save it to my contacts. But my fingers move without permission:

Contact saved: DO NOT ANSWER

Me : How did you get this number?

DO NOT ANSWER : Team directory. Perks of reinstatement

Me : This is inappropriate

DO NOT ANSWER : So was that thing you did with your tongue

I throw my phone across the room, face burning. It buzzes again from the floor, but I refuse to look. I’m a professional. A doctor. A grown woman with boundaries and self-control.

But when I finally retrieve it an hour later, I read his last message:

DO NOT ANSWER : Sweet dreams, Dr. Clark

I delete the thread. Block the number. Pour another glass of wine.

Tomorrow at ten, I’ll sit across from Reed Hendrix in my professional capacity and address his performance issues. I’ll maintain appropriate boundaries. I’ll remember that my career, my reputation, and my relationship with my father all depend on keeping this strictly professional.

I’ll pretend Vegas never happened.

Even if it kills me.