Page 20

Sometimes the most dangerous moments come disguised as quiet ones, like therapy sessions that actually work.

Reed shows up ten minutes early, which should have been my first warning. He’s usually exactly on time—not late enough to be disrespectful, not early enough to seem eager. But today he’s in my waiting area, staring at his hands like they hold answers to questions he hasn’t asked yet.

“Come in,” I say, professional as always despite the way my pulse jumps at seeing him.

He follows me into the office, taking his usual chair. The one he’d commandeered that first session, refusing the distance of sitting across the desk. Today, though, he looks smaller somehow. Tired in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion.

“How are you?” I ask, settling into my own chair with notebook ready.

“Fine.”

“Try again.”

He looks up, surprised by the directness. “I thought you wanted professional distance.”

“I want honest therapy. There’s a difference.” I set down my pen. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Haven’t.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes my fingers itch to fix it. “My brother called.”

I wait, having learned that Reed fills silences when he’s ready, not when pushed.

“He’s in trouble again. Owes money to the wrong people. Again. Needs me to bail him out.” He laughs, but it’s sharp, bitter. “Again.”

“Tell me about your brother.”

“Matteo. Matty.” His expression softens. “Five years younger. Supposed to be the smart one. Full ride to MIT, engineering degree, the whole perfect path laid out.”

“What happened?”

“I happened.” He leans back, staring at the ceiling. “Made it to the NHL, started making real money. Suddenly baby brother didn’t need to study so hard. I’d take care of everything, right? Why struggle when big brother’s signing million-dollar contracts?”

“That’s not your fault.”

He meets my eyes. “I enabled him. Gave him money whenever he asked. Didn’t ask questions when he dropped out, when he started hanging around tracks and card rooms. I was too busy being the big shot to notice my brother was drowning.”

The pain in his voice cracks something open in me. “The fight. The one that got you suspended.”

“Rookie mentioned something about Matty. Mentioned his heroin problem. Said that I was bound for that.” His fists clench. “I lost it. Couldn’t stand hearing him talked about like that.”

“You were protecting him.”

“I was protecting myself. My guilt. My failure.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I couldn’t fix Matty, so I beat McKinnon instead. Real healthy coping mechanism.”

The vulnerability in his admission takes my breath away. This isn’t the cocky player who’s been driving me crazy. This is just Reed, stripped of armor and bleeding guilt.

“Family expectations are complicated,” I hear myself say. “The weight of them can crush you even when they come from love.”

“Speaking from experience?”

I should deflect. Redirect to him. Instead, I find myself nodding. “My father had my entire life planned before I could walk. Piano lessons at four. Mandarin at five. Academic competitions every weekend. Second place was failure. B+ was catastrophic.”

“Jesus.”

“He loves me,” I continue, surprising myself with the need to explain.

“In his way. He wanted me to be exceptional, to never struggle like he did as an immigrant. But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to want things for myself. Everything was about meeting expectations, exceeding benchmarks, being perfect.”

“Is that why you ran? In Vegas?”

The question should feel like an ambush, but it doesn’t. Not today, in this strange bubble of honesty.

“Partly. You were so...” I search for words. “Unplanned. I don’t do unplanned. I don’t do reckless or impulsive or—”

“Real?”

“Intense,” I correct. “Everything about that night was intense. And then the alcohol wore off, and I could see my life waiting—structured, scheduled, safe. You didn’t fit anywhere in that life.”

“I can… fit if you let me.”

It’s not a question. I nod anyway, throat tight.

“I wrote my number,” I admit. “My real number. Spent weeks, months, waiting for a call that never came.”

“I tried every combination.” He laughs softly. “Weston staged an intervention when he caught me calling random numbers hoping to hear your voice.”

The image breaks my heart a little. Both of us waiting, wanting, separated by smudged ink and missed chances.

“My father would lose his mind if he knew,” I say. “His daughter and a player. The scandal, the distraction, the lack of control.”

“Is that what I am? A lack of control?”

“You’re chaos,” I tell him honestly. “Beautiful, terrifying chaos. And I’ve spent my whole life avoiding chaos.”

“How’s that working out?”

“I’m dating a man who bores me to tears because he’s safe. I schedule every minute of my day so there’s no room for spontaneity. I have three therapists on speed dial because I therapize myself constantly.” I meet his eyes. “So not great, actually.”

He shifts forward, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. “Can I tell you something?”

“Isn’t that what therapy’s for?”

“I mean something real. Not therapy real. Just... real.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“That morning with Dez? Teaching him? It was the first time since Vegas that I felt like myself. Not the enforcer, not the fuck- up, not the guy trying to save his brother. Just... me.”

“Reed—”

“You saw it. I know you did. Through the window. The way you looked at me like maybe I wasn’t just chaos. Like maybe I could be more.”

“You are more,” I whisper. “You’ve always been more. I just—”

“Couldn’t let yourself see it. Because then I’d be real, not just some Vegas mistake you could file away.”

My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed. “You were never a mistake.”

“No?”

“No. You were the first real thing I’d felt in years. That’s what scared me.”

His hand rests on the arm of his chair, inches from mine. I stare at it, at the scars across his knuckles, the tape on two fingers, the visible history of violence and tenderness.

“Matty’s in rehab,” he says quietly. “I told him no more bailouts. Either he gets help or he’s on his own.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done. But continuing to enable him was killing us both.”

“That’s growth,” I say, my therapy voice mixing with something more personal. “Recognizing patterns and choosing to break them.”

“Is it? Or am I just breaking everything I touch?”

I don’t think. For once in my calculated life, I don’t analyze or plan. I just reach over and cover his hand with mine.

He goes completely still. We both do. The contact is innocent—just skin on skin, palm over scarred knuckles. But it feels like touching a live wire, electric and dangerous and absolutely right.

“You’re not broken,” I tell him, thumb brushing over a recent cut. “You’re just human. Messy and flawed and trying. Like all of us.”

“Chelsea.” My name comes out rough, pleading.

“I know.” I should pull away. Don’t. “I know we can’t. I know this is impossible. I know everything standing between us.”

“But?”

“But right now, in this room, you’re not my client. You’re just the man who taught a rookie to trust his instincts. Who loves his brother enough to let him fall. Who’s been carrying guilt that isn’t his to carry.”

“And you’re not my therapist,” he says, turning his hand to interlace our fingers.

“You’re the woman who ran because feeling was scarier than leaving.

Who schedules her life to avoid surprises.

Who’s dating someone safe because wanting something real might kill her.

Maybe that’s why Vegas felt so right. Two fucked-up people finding each other in the dark. ”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “That’s not very romantic.”

“I’m not very romantic. But I’m real. And I’m here. And I’m trying to be better.”

“I see that,” I admit. “I see you trying. It’s...” Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Everything. “It makes this harder.”

“This?”

“Staying away. Being professional. Pretending I don’t—” I stop myself.

“Don’t what?”

But I can’t say it. Can’t admit that I think about him constantly. That Jake’s kisses taste like disappointment.

Instead, I squeeze his hand once and let go.

“Our time’s up,” I say softly.

He looks at the clock, then back at me. “We have ten more minutes.”

“I know. But I think... I think we said what needed saying today.”

He stands slowly, like movement hurts. At the door, he pauses.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without turning, “you’re the realest thing in my life. Even when you’re running. Even when you’re with him. Even when you’re trying so hard to be perfect that you forget to breathe.”

“Reed—”

“See you at the gala, Doc.”

He leaves, and I sit in my empty office, hand still warm from his touch. We crossed a line today. Not the physical boundary we’ve been dancing around, but something deeper. We saw each other—really saw each other—beyond the want and the wounds.

It changes everything.

It changes nothing.

I pick up my phone, see a text from Jake about the gala. I should be excited. Should want the safe choice, the easy path, the man who doesn’t make me question everything I’ve built.

Instead, I stare at my hand, at the fingers that held Reed’s for exactly thirty-seven seconds.

Thirty-seven seconds of honesty that felt more real than two years of careful control.

My father would call it weakness.

I’m starting to think it might be strength.