Page 24

My father doesn’t knock. Champions of disappointment never do.

I’m reviewing session notes when he enters my office, closing the door with the kind of controlled precision that made him a legendary coach and a terrible parent. He doesn’t sit. Chris Clark never sits when he can loom.

“We need to talk.”

Four words that have preceded every life-altering lecture since I was five and got a B+ in kindergarten art. I set down my pen carefully, arranging my face into the neutral mask he taught me.

“About?”

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”

“I have several clients. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Hendrix.”

The name lands between us like a live grenade. I keep my expression steady through years of practice.

“What about him?”

“He put Stevens in the hospital.”

“Stevens needed three stitches. Hardly the hospital.”

“Because of you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Players fight all the time—”

“Not like this.” He moves closer, and I’m five years old again as he tries to explain why silver medals aren’t good enough. “Stevens says Hendrix attacked him for mentioning your... dance at the gala.”

“Stevens is mistaken.”

“Is he? Because Patricia tells me she had to kill photos of you two. Because half the staff is whispering about the coach’s daughter and the problem player. Because my own assistant asked if she should be preparing for a scandal.”

Each word is a scalpel, cutting deeper than the last. I stand, needing to not feel small.

“There’s no scandal. I danced with a player at a charity event. That’s all.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me there’s nothing between you and Hendrix.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “There’s nothing—”

“Don’t lie to me, Chelsea.” His control cracks, revealing the fury underneath. “I’ve watched you your entire life. I know every tell, every deflection. You’re involved with him.”

“I’m his therapist.”

“You’re compromised. And you’re putting everything at risk—your career, my reputation, this team’s stability—for what? Some player who can’t control his fists?”

“You don’t know him.”

The words escape before I can stop them, and his eyes narrow to slits.

“Clearly, neither do you. Did you know about his brother? The gambling debts? The connections to—”

“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I know all of it. Because he told me. In therapy. Which is confidential.”

“Therapy.” He laughs, but it’s ugly. “Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like my daughter is throwing away everything she’s worked for to fuck a hockey player.”

The vulgarity hits like a slap. My father never curses. Never loses control. Except now, with me, because I’ve finally disappointed him beyond recovery.

“Get out,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of my office.” My voice gains strength. “You can be my boss, but you don’t get to stand here and—”

“I’m your father.”

“Then act like it!” The words explode from somewhere deep, years of swallowed frustration finally erupting. “For once in my life, act like you care more about me than your reputation!”

“If I didn’t care, I’d let you destroy yourself.” He straightens his tie, rebuilding his walls. “But I won’t. So here’s what’s going to happen. You will end whatever this is with Hendrix. You will maintain absolute professional boundaries. Or you will be terminated.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. Check your contract. Conduct detrimental to team interests is grounds for immediate dismissal.” He moves to the door. “I’ve protected you your whole life, Chelsea. From failure, from consequences, from yourself. But if you continue down this path, I won’t protect you from this.”

“I never asked for your protection.”

“No. You asked for a job. I gave you one. Don’t make me regret it.”

He leaves, and I stand there shaking, hands fisted at my sides. Twenty-eight years of being the perfect daughter, and this is what breaks us. Not my teenage rebellion phase. Not choosing my own PhD program. Not moving cities without asking.

Reed Hendrix is what finally makes my father look at me with disgust.

I sink into my chair as the adrenaline fades, leaving me hollow. My hands won’t stop trembling. My chest feels too tight. The walls of my perfect office—my achievement, my proof I could succeed without him—feel like they’re closing in.

The tears come suddenly, violently. Not pretty tears but ugly sobs that shake my whole body. I press my hands over my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it’s useless. Years of controlled emotion pour out in waves.

“Oh, honey.”

I look up to find Maddy closing the door behind her, holding tissues and wearing an expression of infinite sympathy.

“You heard?”

“Everyone heard. Your father’s not exactly subtle when he’s angry.” She hands me the tissues. “For what it’s worth, facilities are taking bets on who won.”

I laugh through the tears, which somehow makes me cry harder. Maddy doesn’t try to comfort me with empty words. She just sits on my desk, guardian angel in designer heels, and lets me fall apart.

“He’s right,” I say when I can speak again. “I’m compromising everything. My job, the team, his reputation—”

“Your sanity, your relationship with Jake, your ability to function like a normal human...”

“Thanks. Super helpful.”

“I’m not here to lie to you.” She hands me more tissues. “You are compromising everything. The question is whether it’s worth it.”

“It’s not. It can’t be. One man isn’t worth destroying my entire life.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say? That love conquers all? That you should throw away your career for a hockey player with anger issues?” She shrugs. “You’re right. It’s not worth it.”

“But?”

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

“No.” I stand, pacing to the window. “No, I’m not. I’m going to be professional. I’m going to maintain boundaries. I’m going to prove to my father that I can handle this job.”

“And Reed?”

“Will be transferred to another therapist. Conflict of interest. Everyone wins.”

“Everyone loses, you mean.”

“Maddy—”

“Look, I get it. Daddy issues, career goals, the whole type-A perfectionist thing. But Chelsea...” She sighs. “When’s the last time you were happy? Really, truly, stupidly happy?”

Vegas. The answer comes immediately, unwanted. That night in Vegas when I was just Chelsea, not Dr. Clark or Chris’s daughter or anyone’s expectation.

“Happiness is overrated,” I say instead.

“Spoken like someone who’s never really had it.” She slides off the desk. “You know what you have to do. Just... try not to hate yourself too much when you do it.”

She leaves me alone with my decision and my father’s ultimatum echoing in my ears. I pull up Reed’s file, stare at his session scheduled for tomorrow. Ten AM. Our last appointment.

I draft the email seventeen times:

Mr. Hendrix, Due to a conflict of interest, I’m referring you to Dr. Patricia Morse for continued therapy...

Reed, This is hard to write, but...

I can’t do this anymore...

None of them feel right. How do you end something that never officially began? How do you break up with someone you’re not supposed to be with in the first place?

My phone buzzes. Jake.

Jake: Still on for dinner tomorrow?

I stare at the text, at this lifeline to normalcy. Safe, appropriate Jake who doesn’t make my father threaten me or my body betray me, or my career implode.

Me: Yes. Looking forward to it.

The lie tastes like ash, but I send it anyway. Tomorrow I’ll tell Reed he’s being transferred. Tomorrow I’ll have dinner with Jake and pretend he’s what I want. Tomorrow I’ll start rebuilding the walls that Reed demolished.

Tonight, though, I sit in my office and cry for what could have been. For Vegas mornings that ended too soon. For equipment sheds and washing machines and dances that felt like flying. For the possibility of being happy instead of just successful.

My father was right about one thing—I am compromised.

I just wish being uncompromised didn’t feel so much like dying.