Page 23
Story: Off-Limits as Puck
Cold is supposed to be my element, but lately I’m frozen in all the wrong ways.
On the ice, I move through drills like a machine—precise, effective, empty.
No fire. No edge. Just mechanical perfection that feels like dying in slow motion.
My passes connect, my shots find the net, but there’s nothing behind them.
I’m playing hockey like it’s a job instead of the only thing that’s ever made sense.
“Hendrix!” Coach barks. “Pick up the pace!”
I nod, increase speed, execute the drill flawlessly. And feel nothing.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dez asks during water break, studying me with rookie concern. “You’re playing like... I don’t know. Like someone else.”
“Maybe that’s better,” I say, squirting water into my mouth.
“Better? Dude, you’re playing like a robot. Where’s the guy who taught me to trust my instincts?”
Good question. That guy’s too busy texting his therapist inappropriate things and watching her across cafeterias like a stalker. That guy’s one more loaded look away from destroying everything he’s rebuilt.
“Just focused,” I tell him.
“Focused on what? Because it’s not hockey.”
He skates away before I can answer, which is good because I don’t have one. How do I explain that I’m trying to freeze out feelings that burn hotter every day? That playing with passion means playing with everything else Chelsea makes me feel, and I can’t separate the two anymore?
Practice ends, and we hit the gym. I’m halfway through bench press when Stevens opens his fucking mouth.
“So what’s the deal with you and the doc?” He’s spotting me, grinning like he knows something. “Saw you two at the gala. That dance looked cozy.”
“Just a dance.” I rack the weights harder than necessary.
“Right. A dance where you looked ready to bend her over the—”
I’m on my feet before the sentence finishes. Don’t remember moving, don’t remember deciding. One second he’s running his mouth, the next my fist connects with his jaw and we’re crashing into equipment.
He fights back—Stevens is no rookie—and we’re trading punches like it’s playoffs, not a Tuesday gym session. Someone’s yelling. Multiple someones. Hands pulling us apart, but I’m beyond caring. All the frozen control shatters, and I’m pure fire again, burning everything in reach.
“ENOUGH!”
Coach’s voice cuts through the chaos. Stevens and I separate, breathing hard, blood on both our faces. The entire team stands frozen, watching their supposedly reformed enforcer prove he hasn’t changed at all.
“Everyone out,” Coach says quietly. Dangerously. “Except Hendrix.”
They file out silently. Stevens shoots me a look that’s part anger, part pity. Weston pauses at the door, but I wave him off. This is my mess.
When we’re alone, Coach just stares at me. The silence stretches, broken only by my ragged breathing and the drip of blood from my split lip.
“Two months,” he finally says. “Two months of progress. Of proving you could be more than your fists. And this is what you give me?”
“He was—”
“I don’t care what he was doing. You think this is about Stevens? This is about you losing control. Again.” He steps closer. “What happened to the player who was mentoring rookies? Who was channeling his intensity into the game instead of violence?”
“Maybe he was fake. Maybe this is who I really am.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks like a whip. “I’ve seen who you really are. Glimpses of it. The player who could lead this team if he’d get out of his own way. But instead, you’re here, bleeding in my gym because someone said something about—what? A woman?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer.
“You’re done for the day. Maybe longer. I need to think about whether you belong on this team.” He heads for the door, pauses. “Whatever’s going on with you, figure it out or end it. Because this version of you? This frozen, violent mess? We don’t need him.”
He leaves me alone in the gym, surrounded by scattered weights and my own blood. I sink onto a bench, head in my hands, tasting copper and consequence.
My phone buzzes. Chelsea.
Chelsea: Heard there was an incident. Are you okay?
I stare at the message, formal and concerned. Dr. Clark, not Chelsea. Like we didn’t spend yesterday texting about Vegas and blazers.
Me: Peachy.
Chelsea: That usually means the opposite with you.
Me: Learning my tells, Doc?
Chelsea: Your session is still scheduled for tomorrow. Unless you need to see medical first?
Me: I’m fine.
Me: Stevens had it coming.
Chelsea: Did he? Or was he just a convenient punching bag?
I don’t respond. She knows. Of course she knows. Probably knows I hit him because I couldn’t hit the real problem—this thing between us that’s poisoning everything else.
Me: See you tomorrow, Doc.
I turn off my phone before she can respond, grab my gear, and head home. Skip team dinner. Skip Weston’s three calls. Skip everything except the bottle of whiskey I pour but don’t drink, sitting in my dark apartment like some cliché of a broken athlete.
The whiskey stares at me, amber and patient. One drink would soften the edges. Two would blur Chelsea’s face in my mind. Three would make me forget why I can’t have her.
But I don’t drink. Haven’t since she walked through those doors. Getting drunk won’t fix this. Won’t change the fact that she’s with Jake, that I’m imploding, that tomorrow I have to sit in her office and pretend my skin doesn’t burn for her touch.
My knuckles throb. Stevens got in some good shots—my ribs will be a rainbow of bruises tomorrow. But the physical pain is nothing compared to this hollow ache in my chest.
Two months of progress, gone. The team looking at me like I’m a time bomb again. Coach questioning if I belong. All because I can’t control myself around Chelsea Clark.
The funny thing is, I was doing better. The mentoring, the controlled play, the therapy that actually worked—all of it was real. But it was real because of her. Because she saw something in me worth fixing. Because for the first time since Vegas, I wanted to be better for someone.
Now I’m worse than ever. Frozen on the ice, explosive off it. Caught between who I was and who I could be, with no idea how to move forward.
My apartment is too quiet. Just me and the whiskey and the ghosts of every bad decision I’ve made. I should call Weston, apologize to Stevens, try to salvage something from this disaster.
Instead, I sit in the dark and count the hours until I’ll see her again. Until I’ll sit in that chair and try not to think about the equipment shed. Until she’ll ask me about my feelings while I pretend the only feeling that matters isn’t her.
The whiskey remains untouched when I finally head to bed. Small victory in a day full of defeats.
But as I lie there, ribs aching and knuckles split, all I can think about is tomorrow. Ten AM. Her office. The black blazer with the buttons I want to undo with my teeth.
Professional, I promised.
Professional, she demanded.
Professional is starting to feel like another word for torture.
And I’m running out of ways to pretend it isn’t killing me.
Table of Contents
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- Page 23 (Reading here)
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