Page 22

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

I spin to find Maddy in my doorway, coffee in hand and accusation in her eyes. She’s wearing her PR armor—power suit, perfect makeup, expression that could crack walnuts.

“It’s just a jacket,” I say, hanging it on the coat hook like it doesn’t make my pulse race.

“A jacket that looks suspiciously like the one Hendrix was wearing last night. When you two were practically dry-humping on the dance floor.”

“We were dancing. For charity.”

“Chelsea.” She closes the door behind her, and I know I’m in trouble. “I’ve spun a lot of stories in my career. Sex scandals, DUIs, players caught with their pants literally down. But this? This scares me.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit.” She sets her coffee down, crosses her arms. “I have photos from last night. You two looked like you were thirty seconds from ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“Photos?”

“Team photographer. Don’t worry, I killed them before they could hit social media. But Chelsea, people noticed. Board members. Other staff. Your father.”

My stomach drops. “My father saw?”

“He asked me if there was ‘a situation’ he should be aware of.” She sits in my client chair, suddenly looking tired. “I told him you were simply being professional with a challenging client. He didn’t look convinced.”

I sink into my own chair, head in my hands. “Maddy, I swear nothing is happening.”

“Present tense. What about past tense?”

I look up, meeting her knowing gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth would be nice.”

“The truth?” I laugh, but it sounds hysterical. “The truth is I’m losing my mind. The truth is I can’t stop thinking about someone who’s completely wrong for me. The truth is I’m sabotaging everything I’ve worked for over a man who—”

“Who looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“What?”

“Last night. When you were dancing. I’ve never seen Hendrix look at anyone like that. Like you were...” She pauses, searching for words. “Like you were the only real thing in a room full of fakes.”

“Maddy—”

“And you looked at him the same way.”

I stand abruptly, pacing to the window. Below, the team is arriving for morning skate. I spot Reed immediately. He’s early as always lately, gear bag slung over his shoulder, moving with that athlete’s grace that makes my mouth dry.

“It doesn’t matter how we look at each other,” I say quietly. “It can’t happen.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Both. Neither. I don’t know anymore.”

Maddy joins me at the window, following my gaze. “Jake seems nice.”

“He is nice. He’s perfect on paper. Appropriate, stable, professionally suitable.”

“Chelsea, can I be brutally honest?”

“When are you not?” I tease.

“You’re going to blow this up. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The tension between you two is unsustainable.” She turns to face me. “So you have two choices. End it now—really end it, transfer him to another therapist, stop the dance you’re doing. Or...”

“Or?”

“Or admit what you want and deal with the consequences like adults.”

“The consequences would destroy my career.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re using that as an excuse because you’re terrified of what would really happen.” She smiles. “You being happy.”

She leaves me with that bomb, closing the door quietly behind her. I stand at the window, watching Reed disappear into the building, and try to remember how to breathe.

The morning passes in a blur of sessions with other players. I’m professional, helpful, completely present. No one would guess I’m dying inside, that every word feels like lies, that I keep checking my phone for messages that won’t come.

At lunch, I brave the cafeteria instead of hiding in my office. I need normalcy, need to prove I can exist in the same building as Reed without combusting. I’m doing fine—chatting with the nutritionist about meal plans, laughing at appropriate moments—when I feel it.

That pull. That magnetic awareness that tells me he’s nearby.

I look up to find him across the room, tray in hand, watching me. Not trying to hide it. Not pretending to be interested in whatever Weston’s saying beside him. Just... watching.

Our eyes lock, and the cafeteria fades to white noise. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just looks at me with an intensity that makes me forget why breathing is important.

“Dr. Clark?” The nutritionist touches my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I manage, tearing my gaze away. “Just remembered I have a... thing. An appointment. Excuse me.”

I flee like the coward I am, abandoning my half-eaten salad and what’s left of my dignity. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and give myself a stern look in the mirror.

I pull out my phone and open his contact. Still saved as DO NOT ANSWER, though that ship has clearly sailed.

Me: This has to stop.

I stare at the message, then delete it. Too vague. Too dramatic.

Me: We need to maintain professional boundaries.

Delete. Too clinical.

Me: Stop looking at me like that.

Delete. Too revealing.

Me: This has to stop.

I hit send before I can overthink it again, then immediately regret everything. What am I, sixteen? Who texts their forbidden attraction to please stop being attractive?

His response comes thirty seconds later.

DO NOT ANSWER: Then stop thinking about me.

I laugh despite myself—a sharp, desperate sound that echoes off bathroom tiles.

Me: I’m not thinking about you.

DO NOT ANSWER: Liar. You’re thinking about last night.

Me: I’m thinking about how inappropriate it was.

DO NOT ANSWER: Which part? The dancing? The jacket? The way you shivered when I touched your back?

Me: All of it.

DO NOT ANSWER: But especially that last part.

I’m typing a response when another message appears.

DO NOT ANSWER: I know because I’m thinking about it too. Haven’t stopped.

DO NOT ANSWER: Probably won’t stop.

DO NOT ANSWER: That dress should be illegal, btw.

Me: Reed.

DO NOT ANSWER: Chelsea.

Me: This isn’t funny.

DO NOT ANSWER: Who’s laughing?

DO NOT ANSWER: You still have my jacket.

Me: I’ll return it.

DO NOT ANSWER: Keep it. Looks better on you.

DO NOT ANSWER: Everything looks better on you.

DO NOT ANSWER: Or off you. Vegas proved that.

Me: STOP.

DO NOT ANSWER: You texted me first.

DO NOT ANSWER: Mixed signals, Doc.

He’s right. I’m giving mixed signals like a broken traffic light. Stop, go, yield, crash into me and let’s burn together. This is exactly what Maddy warned about. The unsustainable tension that’s going to explode and take everything with it.

Me: No more personal texts. No more looks across rooms. No more dances at galas.

DO NOT ANSWER: What about therapy sessions?

Me: Professional only.

DO NOT ANSWER: I can do professional.

DO NOT ANSWER: Can you?

The challenge in those two words makes me grip my phone tighter.

Me: Yes.

DO NOT ANSWER: Prove it. Tomorrow’s session. 10 AM.

DO NOT ANSWER: Wear the blazer. The black one with the buttons.

DO NOT ANSWER: I promise to be very, very professional about it.

I’m saved from responding by someone entering the bathroom. I shove my phone away and escape to my office, where I spend the rest of the afternoon accomplishing absolutely nothing except staring at those texts and wondering how everything got so complicated.

No, that’s a lie. I know exactly how it got complicated.

Vegas. The laundry room. The equipment shed. The dance floor. Every moment we’ve pretended we could control this thing between us.

My phone buzzes one more time as I’m packing up to leave.

DO NOT ANSWER: For what it’s worth, I’d rather be unprofessional with you than professional with anyone else.

DO NOT ANSWER: See you tomorrow, Dr. Clark.

I don’t respond. Can’t respond. Because what would I say? That I feel the same? That professional is starting to feel like a straitjacket? That I’m one more loaded look away from throwing everything away just to taste him again?

Instead, I grab his jacket from the hook, definitely not breathing in his scent, and head home to my safe, scheduled, appropriate life.

Where I’ll have dinner with Jake tomorrow night and pretend he’s what I want.

Where I’ll plan sessions that maintain boundaries I’m desperate to cross.

Where I’ll lie in bed and think about Reed like clockwork.

Maddy’s right. This is going to blow up.

The only question is whether I’ll survive the explosion.