Page 26

Avoidance is an art form, and I’m painting a masterpiece in cowardice.

Five days since I showed up at Reed’s apartment like a hurricane in a pencil skirt.

Five days since I let him pin me against his kitchen wall and prove every rational thought in my head wrong.

Five days of hiding in my office, taking alternate routes through the facility, and pretending the bruises on my hips don’t throb like a guilty conscience.

“You look like shit,” Maddy announces, breezing into my office without knocking. It’s becoming a theme—people invading my space without permission, just like Reed invaded my life.

“Good morning to you too.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.” She perches on my desk, studying me with PR precision. “When’s the last time you slept? Or ate? Or did anything besides hide in here like a fugitive?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m working.”

“On what? You’ve referred Hendrix to Dr. Morse. Your other clients are stable. So what exactly requires fourteen-hour days?”

“Paperwork.”

“Bullshit.”

I look up from files I haven’t actually been reading. “What do you want, Maddy?”

“The truth would be nice. About why you look like death. About why Hendrix’s been playing like a man possessed. About why you’re avoiding the entire west wing of the building.”

“I’m not—”

“You took the service elevator yesterday to avoid the main hallway. The service elevator, Chelsea. With the mops and questionable smells.”

She’s right. I’ve mapped out every possible route through the building that minimizes the chance of seeing him. It’s exhausting, this careful choreography of avoidance.

“Did something happen?” Her voice goes gentle. “After your father’s visit? After Hendrix’s fight?”

Everything happened. Everything fell apart.

“I transferred him,” I say instead. “Like you suggested. Clean break. Professional boundaries restored.”

“And yet you’re acting like someone died.”

Someone did. The version of me who could pretend this was manageable. Who could sit in therapy sessions and maintain distance. Who could walk away from Reed Hendrix and mean it.

My phone buzzes. Jake, again.

Jake: Still no word about dinner? Starting to think you’re ghosting me.

I should respond. Should go to dinner, let him kiss me goodnight, try to build something normal from the ashes of my disaster. Instead, I delete the text.

“Okay, that’s it.” Maddy stands. “What’s really going on? And don’t say nothing because you just deleted a text from Nice Safe Jake without even reading it.”

“Maybe I don’t want nice and safe.”

“No shit. You want complicated and destructive wearing number seventeen.” She crosses her arms. “The question is what you’re going to do about it.”

“Nothing. I’m doing nothing. I transferred him, I’m maintaining distance, I’m being the professional my father expects.”

“Your father’s an ass.”

“Maddy!”

“What? He is. I’ve worked with him for three years. Brilliant coach, terrible human. And the way he talks to you...” She shakes her head. “That’s not love, honey. That’s control.”

“He wants what’s best for me.”

“He wants what’s best for him. There’s a difference.”

My office phone rings before I can argue. My father’s extension.

“Speak of the devil,” Maddy mutters.

I answer with professional calm I don’t feel. “Dr. Clark.”

“My office. Now.” He hangs up without waiting for confirmation.

“Sounds friendly,” Maddy observes.

“I should go.”

“Chelsea.” She catches my arm as I pass. “Whatever’s about to happen, remember you’re not alone. Despite your best efforts to push everyone away.”

I want to hug her. Want to confess everything—the midnight visit, the kitchen wall, the way I can still feel Reed’s hands on me. Instead, I straighten my blazer and prepare for another round with Chris Clark.

His office is a shrine to success—trophies, photos with legends, proof that winning matters more than anything. He’s standing behind his desk like a general preparing for war.

“Sit.”

I remain standing. “What’s this about?”

“The press event Thursday. You’ll be presenting.”

“Presenting what?”

“The team’s commitment to mental health. Your programs. Success stories.” He slides a folder across the desk. “Talking points are prepared. Memorize them.”

I flip through the pages, seeing carefully crafted PR speak about breakthrough therapies and player development. Nothing real. Nothing true.

“This mentions Hendrix’s improvement,” I note. “His successful reintegration.”

“He’s our most visible player. His progress reflects well on the program.”

“The player I just transferred due to conflicts?”

“The media doesn’t need to know that.” He leans back. “You’ll present him as a success story. Proof that our methods work.”

“But—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Chelsea. The team needs positive press. You’ll provide it.”

“By lying?”

“By focusing on results. His play has improved. His penalty minutes are down. That’s all that matters.”

“What about the fight with Stevens?”

“Training intensity. Already handled.” He stands, conversation clearly over. “Thursday. 2 PM. Wear the blue suit—it photographs well.”

I leave his office feeling dirty. He wants me to parade Reed’s “improvement” while hiding that I can’t even be in the same room with him. Wants me to lie to protect the image we’re all killing ourselves to maintain.

Back in my office, I find Maddy waiting with coffee and a concerned expression.

“That bad?”

“Press event Thursday. I’m supposed to present Reed as a success story.”

“Awkward.”

“It’s fine. I’ll lie. I’ve gotten good at it.” I accept the coffee gratefully. “Lying to my father, to Jake, to myself...”

“Speaking of lies and press.” Maddy’s expression shifts to what I call her crisis mode. “There’s something you should know. Rumors are starting.”

“Rumors?”

“About you and Hendrix. Nothing concrete yet, just whispers. But...” She pauses. “I’ve heard from contacts that someone might have photos.”

My blood freezes. “Photos of what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe the gala—I thought I killed those, but perhaps I missed one. Maybe something else. But Chelsea, if there are photos...”

Equipment shed. Laundry room. The parking lot. Any number of moments where we forgot to be careful.

“What do I do?”

“Deny everything. No matter what surfaces, you deny. And maybe...” She hesitates. “Maybe give them something else to talk about.”

“Like what?”

“Like a very public date with Jake. Show them you’re involved with someone appropriate. Control the narrative before it controls you.”

She leaves me with that suggestion and the weight of impending disaster. I sit at my desk, staring at my phone, knowing what I should do. Call Jake. Arrange dinner. Create a cover story for whatever’s about to explode.

Instead, I pull up my message thread with Reed. Our last exchange from before everything went wrong.

Reed: For what it’s worth, I’d rather be unprofessional with you than professional with anyone else.

I’ve typed and deleted a hundred messages since that night at his apartment. Apologies. Explanations. Accusations. Confessions. None of them sent because what could I possibly say?

I’m sorry I destroyed us? I miss you so much I can’t breathe? My father wants me to lie about you to the press? Someone might have photos of us?

My phone rings. Unknown number.

“Dr. Clark,” I answer professionally.

“Dr. Clark, this is Amy Winters from the Chicago Tribune. I’m working on a story about the Outlaws’ mental health program and wondered if you could comment on your relationship with Reed Hendrix.”

The room tilts. “I’m sorry?”

“Your therapeutic relationship,” she clarifies, but her tone suggests she knows exactly what she’s implying. “There are questions about boundaries and professional ethics.”

“All player interactions follow strict professional guidelines. If you have questions about our program, please contact our media department.”

“What about photos suggesting otherwise?”

“I’m not aware of any photos. Excuse me, I have a session.”

I hang up, hands shaking. The vultures are circling, smelling blood in the water. Whatever photos exist are about to surface, and my carefully constructed life is about to implode.

I should warn Reed. Should warn Maddy. Should do something besides sit here frozen while my professional death approaches.

Instead, I stare at his contact in my phone, at the messages I can’t send, at the mess I’ve made of everything.

Thursday’s press event is in two days. Two days to pretend everything’s fine while knowing a bomb is about to drop. Two days to lie about the one real thing in my fabricated life.

My father wanted me to choose between Reed and my career.

Looks like the choice is about to be made for me.