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I don’t throw things. I’m a professional with multiple degrees and excellent emotional regulation. So the stapler that just hit my office door must have been a poltergeist.

“Fuck!” The word escapes before I can stop it, echoing in my supposedly soundproof office.

My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking, actually, like I’ve been electrocuted. Which isn’t far from how it felt having Reed Hendrix in my space, breathing my air, saying things that made my carefully constructed walls crumble like tissue paper in rain.

“You didn’t seem to mind how noncompliant I was in Vegas.”

I sink into my chair, head in my hands. He’s right. God help me, he’s right about all of it. The control issues, the fear, the way I’ve scheduled my life into such rigid boxes that there’s no room for anything messy or real or...him.

My phone buzzes. His texts stare at me, each word a perfectly aimed arrow:

“I’m trying to be better. But you make me want to be worse.”

I should delete them. Block his number. Report the interaction to Patricia and request he be assigned to another therapist. That’s what Professional Chelsea would do.

Instead, I stare at the messages until my vision blurs, remembering the look on his face when he said it meant everything. Raw. Honest. Devastating.

A knock makes me jump. “Come in.”

Maddy enters, taking in my disheveled appearance and the stapler on the floor. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She closes the door and produces a flask from her purse. “Emergency bourbon. Spill.”

“It’s ten forty-five in the morning.”

“And you just had your first Hendrix session. The bourbon is medicinal.” She pours a shot into my coffee mug. “What happened?”

I take a sip, letting the burn steady me. “He happened. Hurricane Reed hit my office and left destruction in his wake.”

“Specifics.”

“He turned everything around on me. Made the session about my issues instead of his. Called me out on...” I wave vaguely. “Everything.”

“And?”

“And I kicked him out fifteen minutes early because I was about to either murder him—” I stop, taking another sip.

“Or jump him?”

“Maddy!”

“Chelsea, honey, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. It’s like watching a lit fuse burn toward dynamite.”

“That’s the problem.” I slump back, exhausted. “I can’t be objective with him. He gets under my skin, finds every button and pushes it. And my body—”

“Betrays you?”

“Responds. Like muscle memory. He leans forward, and I remember how he—” I cut myself off. “This is insane. I’m going to remove him from my caseload.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“No, literally, you can’t.” Maddy’s expression turns serious. “His therapy is court-mandated as part of his reinstatement. If you refuse to treat him without documented cause, it raises questions. Questions neither of you want answered.”

“So I’m trapped.”

“You’re challenged. There’s a difference.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Look, you’ve got days until the next session. Use them. Build better walls. Practice your poker face. Remember what’s at stake. Oh, and don’t forget there’s the retreat. I’ll send the details over.”

“A retreat?” I question. “I’ll look over the details. Thanks.”

After she leaves, I try to focus on my other clients. The rookie with anxiety. The veteran dealing with retirement fears. Normal therapeutic relationships with appropriate boundaries and zero sexual tension.

But my mind keeps drifting to Reed. The way he sprawled in that chair like he owned it. How his voice dropped when he talked about wanting me. The heat in his eyes when I finally pushed back.

By evening, I’m home in my safest pajamas, grading papers and definitely not thinking about tomorrow’s game. My roommate Julia tries to engage me in conversation about her latest Tinder disaster, but I’m barely listening.

“The hockey job? How’s that going?”

“It’s...” Complicated. Dangerous. Possibly career-ending. “Fine.”

“You should get me tickets sometime. I love a man in uniform.”

“They don’t wear uniforms. They wear gear.”

“Same thing. All that padding in strategic places.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Any cute ones?”

Right now. Looking at you. Wanting you so bad I can’t think straight.

“They’re all clients,” I say firmly. “Off limits.”

“Boring.” She flops on the couch. “You need to live a little, Chelsea. When’s the last time you had really good sex?”

Two years, three months, and twenty-seven days ago.

“I’m going to bed,” I announce, gathering my papers.

“It’s eight thirty!”

“Early morning tomorrow.”

In my room, I try to meditate. Count sheep. Practice the progressive muscle relaxation I recommend to clients. Nothing works. Every time I close my eyes, I see Reed leaning toward me, all controlled intensity and dangerous promises.

When’s the last time you just felt something without thinking it through?

I try to tell my mind to be quiet, but it doesn’t listen.

I finally fall asleep around midnight, only to dream of Vegas. But this time, I don’t leave. This time, when he asks me to stay, I do. I wake up in the early morning hours, gasping and aching and furious at my subconscious for its terrible timing.

The next morning, I dress like armor—black suit, hair in a severe bun, makeup that says, ‘I’m untouchable and definitely not thinking about your mouth.’ I arrive at the arena early, determined to watch the game from my office via the closed-circuit feed.

That plan lasts exactly until warm-ups, when I find myself drawn to the rink level “to observe team dynamics.” It has nothing to do with seeing how Reed looks in his gear after months away.

He’s magnetic on the ice, all that chaotic energy channeled into grace and power. His teammates give him space at first, but as drills progress, I see the ice beginning to thaw. Weston feeds him passes. Marcus chirps at him after a play. The team remembering how to be a team.

“Couldn’t stay away?”

I jump. Patricia stands beside me, watching the ice with calculating eyes.

“Observing interpersonal dynamics,” I say smoothly. “Integration after suspension can affect team cohesion.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Hendrix looks good out there. Focused.”

Focused. Right. Except for when he glances toward where I’m standing, like he knows exactly where I am even though the glass is crowded with staff and early-arriving fans.

“His session yesterday,” Patricia continues. “Any concerns?”

“He was... resistant to traditional therapeutic approaches.”

“But manageable?”

You make me want to be worse.

“Completely manageable,” I lie.

The game is a revelation. Reed plays like a man possessed, channeling whatever demons drive him into three goals and an assist. The crowd goes wild every time he touches the puck. Even my father, standing behind the bench, allows a small smile after the second goal.

I should go back to my office. Process notes. Plan for other sessions. Instead, I watch him celebrate with his teammates, the joy on his face making him look younger. Lighter. Like the man who laughed with me in Vegas before everything got complicated.

My phone buzzes.

DO NOT ANSWER: Nice suit, Doc. Very professional.

I look around, but he’s on the ice, focused on the game. How did he—

DO NOT ANSWER: You’re in section 104. Third row. Trying to blend in but failing.

DO NOT ANSWER: That’s not creepy. I just know where you are. Always.

I should be disturbed. Instead, heat pools low in my belly.

Me: Pay attention to the game.

DO NOT ANSWER: I am. We’re winning. Thanks to my excellent focus.

DO NOT ANSWER: Turns out anger isn’t my only motivator.

The implications make me squirm in my seat. I watch him take his next shift, playing with an intensity that borders on violent but stays just within legal. He’s channeling something, and I have a sick feeling it’s me.

After the game, I escape to my office before the media scrum. But I can’t focus on paperwork, too amped from watching him play. From those texts. From the knowledge that in five days, we’ll be in this room again, pretending we don’t affect each other.

A knock interrupts my spiral. “Come in.”

It’s my father. He never visits my office.

“Good game,” I offer.

“Hendrix played well.” He studies me with uncomfortable intensity. “His reintegration seems successful.”

“It’s early days.”

“Indeed.” He moves to the window, looking down at the emptying arena. “I’ve been coaching for thirty years, Chelsea. I know when a player is motivated by something beyond the game.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t—”

“Whatever happened in his session yesterday, it worked. He played like a man with something to prove.” He turns back to me. “Just ensure it remains... productive.”

The warning is clear. As long as Reed performs, questions won’t be asked. But the moment it affects the team negatively...

After he leaves, I lock my door and scream into a throw pillow. Four days until I have to face Reed again. Four days to build better defenses against a man who sees through every wall I construct.

My phone buzzes one last time.

DO NOT ANSWER: Sweet dreams, Chelsea.

DO NOT ANSWER: I’ll be having them too.

I don’t respond. But I don’t delete them either.

And when I dream that night, it’s not about leaving Vegas.

It’s about what would happen if I stayed.