Page 18

I’ve showered three times since the equipment shed, and I can still feel him everywhere.

The bruise on my neck mocks me from the bathroom mirror, purple-dark evidence of my complete professional failure. I’ve tried concealer, scarves, strategic hair placement. Nothing hides the truth that I let Reed Hendrix fuck me against a workbench like professional ethics were just a suggestion.

No. That’s too passive. I didn’t let him do anything. I attacked him, pulled him in, begged for it with every breath. And the worst part? I’d do it again right now if he walked through my door.

“Get it together,” I tell my reflection, applying another layer of makeup to the hickey. “You’re Dr. Chelsea Clark. You have degrees. You have boundaries. You have self-control.”

My reflection calls bullshit.

The ride back to Chicago is torture. I claim carsickness to get a front seat in the staff van, as far from the players’ bus as possible.

Maddy keeps shooting me looks that say she knows something’s up, but I bury myself in my phone, drafting session notes that definitely don’t include “exhibited poor impulse control” or “boundary violations in equipment storage.”

Back at the practice facility, I throw myself into work like professionalism can retroactively fix my sins. I arrive early, stay late, and maintain at least fifty feet between myself and Reed at all times. It’s exhausting, like trying to repel magnets that nature intended to snap together.

During practice, I position myself in the upper-level office, watching through glass like a coward. The team runs drills below, and even from here, I can pick out Reed’s movements—the controlled violence of his playing style, the way he owns the ice like he owned me in that shed.

“Great view up here.”

I jump, spinning to find a man I don’t recognize. Tall, athletic build, with the kind of easy smile that probably works on women who aren’t completely fucked up over brooding hockey players.

“I’m sorry, this area is restricted to—”

“Staff, yeah. I’m staff.” He extends a hand. “Jake Morrison. New athletic trainer. Started yesterday while you guys were playing trust falls in the mountains.”

I shake his hand, noting the firm grip, the maintained eye contact. Normal. Safe. Everything Reed isn’t.

“Dr. Chelsea Clark. Mental performance coach.”

“I know who you are.” His smile widens. “Your reputation precedes you. The team won’t shut up about their brilliant therapist who’s fixing their heads.”

“I don’t know about brilliant.”

“Modest too. Dangerous combination.” He leans against the window, looking down at practice. “So, Dr. Clark, do you make a habit of hiding up here, or is today special?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m... observing from a strategic distance.”

“Strategic distance. I like that.” He turns that easy smile on me again. “Speaking of distance, how far is it to the nearest decent coffee? I’m still learning the area.”

Is he... flirting? It feels like flirting. Safe, normal, appropriate flirting with someone who doesn’t know how I sound when I come.

“There’s a place two blocks north,” I hear myself say. “Rosetta’s. Best espresso.”

“Any chance you’d want to show me? After practice? I promise to maintain strategic distance the entire time.”

I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries with all staff, not just the one who makes me lose my mind. But then I catch movement on the ice below—Reed, looking up at the office windows like he knows exactly where I am and who I’m talking to.

“Sure,” I say, loud enough that it feels like a declaration. “Coffee sounds good.”

Jake grins like he’s pleased. We make plans to meet in an hour, and he heads back to wherever athletic trainers go. I stay at the window, watching Reed slam a puck into the net with unnecessary force.

Coffee with Jake is... nice. He’s funny, charming, asks questions about my work that show genuine interest. He doesn’t make my pulse race or my skin burn. When he laughs, it doesn’t sound like home. When he accidentally brushes my hand reaching for sugar, I don’t feel anything but mild awkwardness.

“So,” he says over his second espresso, “I was hoping to do this again sometime. Maybe dinner instead of coffee?”

I open my mouth to politely decline, then remember Reed’s face when he saw us talking. Remember him saying this would happen again like it was a promise and a threat. Remember that I need to prove—to him, to myself—that I can maintain control.

“Dinner sounds nice.”

We’re walking back to the facility when the team is piling out to leave for the day. I quicken my pace, hoping to make it inside before—

“Doc!” Weston waves me over. “What do you have in the bag? Any treats?”

“I was just—”

“Getting coffee,” Reed’s voice cuts through as he approaches, gear bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes flick to Jake, then back to me, dark and unreadable. “Caffeine emergency?”

“Something like that.” I keep my voice level. “Everyone, this is Jake Morrison. New athletic trainer. Jake, the team.”

Reed shakes hand with him, and I swear I hear knuckles crack.

“Morrison,” Reed says slowly, like he’s tasting the name. “The guys mentioned you started yesterday.”

“That’s right. Dr. Clark was kind enough to show me a good coffee spot.”

“How generous of her.” Reed’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “She’s always so... helpful with new staff.”

The tension is thick enough to choke on. Jake seems oblivious, but Weston’s looking between us like he’s watching a bomb countdown.

“We should get inside,” I say brightly. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Right.” Reed shoulders his bag. “See you at tomorrow’s session, Doc. 2 PM, right?”

“10 AM,” I correct.

“My mistake. Must have been distracted.” His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Happens sometimes when you see things you weren’t expecting.”

He walks away, leaving scorch marks on my composure. Jake chatters about something—the weather? sports medicine? —but I’m not listening. I’m watching Reed’s retreating back and trying not to remember how those shoulders felt under my nails.

That night, I end up at the hotel bar where the team gathers sometimes for a weekly dinner out. More team comradery stuff. I tell myself I’m here to connect with the staff, to be a supportive part of the organization. Not to prove anything to anyone.

Jake finds me within minutes, sliding into the booth with two drinks and that easy smile. We talk about safe things—his last job, my research, anything but the elephant in the room wearing number 47.

“You know,” Jake says after his second beer, “I get the feeling I’m missing something here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hendrix hasn’t taken his eyes off us since I sat down.” He nods toward the bar where Reed stands with teammates, ostensibly listening to their conversation but clearly focused elsewhere. “Either he’s really protective of the team therapist, or—”

“There’s no ‘or.’” The lie tastes bitter. “Some players are just... intense about staff boundaries.”

“Right.” Jake doesn’t look convinced, but he’s too polite to push. “Well, his intensity is making me uncomfortable. Want to get out of here? I know a quieter place down the street.”

I should go with him. Should remove myself from this situation, from Reed’s burning gaze, from the temptation to do something stupid like march over there and—

“I should actually head home,” I say instead. “Early morning.”

Jake takes the rejection gracefully, walking me to my car like a gentleman. He doesn’t try to kiss me goodnight, just squeezes my hand and promises to text about that dinner.

I sit in my car for a full minute, keys in the ignition, telling myself to drive away. Instead, I look back at the bar entrance just as Reed emerges, alone.

He sees me immediately, of course. We stare at each other across the parking lot, the distance between us charged with everything we’re not saying. He takes one step toward my car, and I panic, starting the engine and pulling out before he can get closer.

In my rearview mirror, I watch him stand there, hands in his pockets, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.

My phone buzzes at a red light.

DO NOT ANSWER : Jake seems nice

DO NOT ANSWER : Boring but nice

DO NOT ANSWER : Is that what you want now? Nice?

I throw my phone in my purse and drive home, where I’ll pretend to sleep while really thinking about the difference between nice and necessary, between what I should want and what I crave.

Jake will text tomorrow about dinner. I’ll probably say yes because I need to prove I can. Reed will show up to his session, and we’ll pretend the equipment shed never happened while the memory burns between us.

And somewhere in the space between nice and necessary, I’ll keep losing pieces of myself to a man who looks at me like I’m both his salvation and his downfall.