Page 28

There’s nothing quite like watching your life explode in real-time on a seventy-inch conference room screen.

The photo stares back at me in high definition—grainy but damning, taken outside the team hotel in Minneapolis three weeks ago. Reed’s hand on my lower back. My face turned up to his like a flower seeking sun. The space between us intimate enough to suffocate the entire room.

“This is a disaster,” Patricia says, scrolling through her tablet. “It’s already trending on three platforms.”

I’m sitting at the head of the conference table like I’m the defendant at my own trial.

Which, I suppose, I am. The emergency meeting was called the moment the photo hit—board members dialing in from their corner offices, lawyers taking notes, my entire career dissected by people who’ve never had their worst moment broadcast to the world.

“The optics are terrible,” Board Chairman Morrison’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Coach’s daughter. Player therapy. Conflict of interest doesn’t begin to cover this.”

My father hasn’t spoken since we sat down.

He’s stationed himself across from me, arms crossed, disappointment radiating from him like heat from asphalt.

When our eyes meet, I see everything I’ve destroyed reflected back—his reputation, the team’s integrity, whatever fragile relationship we’d managed to build.

“Dr. Clark,” Morrison continues, “perhaps you’d like to explain how this happened.”

The truth? I lost my mind the moment Reed Hendrix looked at me like I was worth the chaos. But that’s not what they want to hear.

“The photo appears to be from an away series,” I say carefully. “I was consulting on player wellness during travel.”

“At midnight? In what appears to be an intimate setting?”

“I—” My throat closes. Because what can I say? That we were arguing about boundaries we’d already destroyed? That five minutes after this photo was taken, he kissed me against the hotel’s brick wall while I tried to remember why we couldn’t have this?

“The timeline suggests ongoing contact outside therapeutic sessions,” Patricia adds, not looking at me. “Which violates multiple ethics policies.”

“How long has this been going on?” Morrison’s voice sharpens. “The relationship with Hendrix?”

Relationship. Like we had dinner dates and anniversary plans instead of stolen moments between professional obligations and family expectations.

“There is no relationship,” I lie smoothly. “Mr. Hendrix and I maintained appropriate therapeutic boundaries throughout his treatment.”

“Bullshit.”

My father’s first word in thirty minutes lands like a slap. Everyone turns to him, but his eyes stay locked on mine.

“I’m sorry?” Morrison sounds shocked.

“I said bullshit.” Chris Clark doesn’t repeat profanity lightly. “Look at that photo. Look at her face. That’s not a therapist with her client. That’s a woman with her lover.”

The word “lover” in his voice makes me want to disappear. Clinical. Disgusted. Like I’m something distasteful he stepped in.

“Coach Clark—” Patricia starts.

“No.” He leans forward, and I’m seven years old again, explaining why I got second place in the spelling bee. “I’ve protected her from herself for twenty-eight years. Made excuses for poor judgment. Covered for mistakes. But this?”

“Dad—”

“This destroys everything. The team’s credibility. My coaching reputation. Her career.” His voice drops to a whisper that cuts deeper than shouting. “All for what? A hockey player with anger issues and a gambling addict for a brother?”

“That’s not—”

“What it’s about? Then tell me, Chelsea. Tell me what was worth throwing away everything you’ve worked for.”

I could tell him the truth. That Reed sees me as more than an achievement on legs. That he makes me feel alive instead of just successful. That sometimes being with him feels like the first real thing I’ve done in my carefully curated life.

Instead, I sit there drowning in his disappointment while board members murmur among themselves like vultures deciding which bones to pick clean.

“The PR situation is manageable,” Maddy interjects, sliding into the room with her phone pressed to her ear. “If we move quickly. Dr. Clark issues a statement about professional conduct. Hendrix’s already suspended. We control the narrative before it controls us.”

“What kind of statement?” I ask.

“Denial. Confusion about how the photo could be misinterpreted. Emphasis on your professionalism and dedication to the team.” She looks directly at me. “Complete separation from Hendrix moving forward.”

My phone buzzes on the table. A text from an unknown number:

Unknown: 48 hours to respond or the equipment shed photos go wide.

The blood drains from my face. Equipment shed. Where we came apart against a workbench like professional boundaries were suggestions instead of commandments.

“What?” Patricia notices my expression.

“Nothing. Just...” I turn the phone face down. “Spam.”

But Maddy’s watching me with those sharp PR eyes that miss nothing. She knows. Somehow, she knows there’s more.

“I think,” Morrison’s voice cuts through the tension, “we need to discuss next steps. Dr. Clark, the board will be meeting Thursday to review your employment status.”

“You’re firing me?”

“We’re reviewing. There’s a difference.” But his tone suggests the review is a formality. “I’d suggest consulting with an attorney. And perhaps... considering a resignation. Quiet. Dignified. Before this gets uglier.”

After they file out—board members to their crisis meetings, lawyers to their billable hours—I’m left alone with my father and the echo of years of expectations crashing down.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No.” He stands slowly, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re not sorry this happened. You’re sorry you got caught.”

“That’s not true.”

He moves to the window, staring down at the practice rink where his players are trying to focus on hockey instead of their coach’s daughter’s scandal. “When I took this job, I told myself I was giving you an opportunity. A chance to prove yourself without my influence.”

“You were—”

“I was setting you up to fail. Because deep down, I knew you’d choose chaos over responsibility. Just like your mother.”

The comparison hits home. My mother, who left when I was twelve because Chris Clark’s version of love felt like suffocation. Who chose freedom over family obligations and never looked back.

“I’m not her.”

“No?” He turns back to me, and his eyes are wet. My father—who never cries, never shows weakness—has tears threatening. “You threw away everything for a man who will never put you first. Who will choose his addiction to conflict over your need for stability. Just like she did.”

“Reed’s not—”

“An addict? To what, Chelsea? Violence? Drama? The thrill of destroying everything good in his life?” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen his type. Hell, I’ve coached his type. They burn bright and leave nothing but ashes.”

“He’s trying to change.”

“People don’t change. They just find new ways to disappoint you.”

He leaves me sitting in that conference room with the photo still glowing on the screen and my phone buzzing with increasingly desperate messages from reporters, teammates, people I thought were friends who now want front-row seats to my destruction.

I walk through the facility in a daze, noting how conversations stop when I pass. How eyes follow me with mixtures of pity and judgment. The support staff who used to chat about weekend plans now study their phones like doctoral theses.

In my office, I find three boxes on my desk. Someone—probably security—preparing for the inevitable. Twenty-eight years of achievements ready to be packed away like evidence of a crime.

My hands shake as I reach for my diplomas, but before I can touch them, the walls start closing in. The air gets thin. My chest tightens like someone’s sitting on it, and suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t—

I run.

Down the hall, through doors, anywhere that isn’t that office with its boxes and broken dreams. The women’s locker room is empty, thank God, and I lock myself in the furthest stall, sliding down the cold tile wall until I hit the floor.

The panic attack hits like a freight train. Heart hammering against my ribs. Lungs that won’t expand. The taste of copper in my mouth as I bite my tongue trying not to scream.

This is it. This is how it ends. Not with some graceful resignation or dignified exit but hyperventilating on a bathroom floor while my life implodes around me.

“Chelsea?”

Maddy’s voice, gentle and concerned. Of course she found me. PR professionals are excellent at tracking down disasters in progress.

“Go away,” I manage between gasps.

“Can’t do that.” Her designer heels click against tile as she approaches. “Mind if I come in?”

“It’s a bathroom stall, not a boardroom.”

“I’ve had meetings in worse places.” The door opens—I forgot to lock it—and she settles on the floor beside me in her thousand-dollar suit like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Breathe with me. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”

I follow her lead because I have no choice. The panic starts to recede, leaving me shaky and embarrassed and more vulnerable than I’ve felt since Vegas.

“Better?”

“Marginally.” I lean my head back against the stall wall. “How did you find me?”

“Lucky guess. Plus, you left your office door open and looked like you were about to either vomit or murder someone.” She hands me tissues from her purse. “Want to talk about it?”

“About having a breakdown in a bathroom? Not particularly.”

“About the text that made you go white during the meeting.”

I freeze. “What text?”

“Chelsea.” Her voice goes soft, sympathetic. “I’ve been doing crisis management for eight years. I know the look of someone who’s just realized the crisis is bigger than they thought.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“More photos?”

The question hangs between us. I could lie, deny, maintain the fiction that one grainy hotel photo is the extent of my professional suicide. But Maddy’s been my only ally in this mess, and I’m tired of carrying secrets alone.

“Equipment shed,” I whisper. “During the retreat.”

“Jesus.” She’s quiet for a long moment. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” I close my eyes, remembering. His hands in my hair. My legs around his waist. The workbench creaking under our desperation. “Definitely not appropriate therapeutic positioning.”

“Blackmail?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“To do what?”

“They didn’t specify. Just... respond.”

She’s typing on her phone, fingers flying with PR efficiency. “I need to coordinate with legal. Get ahead of this before—”

“Maddy.” Something in her urgency bothers me. The way she knew exactly what questions to ask. The timing of her finding me here. “How did you know to look for more photos?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you went straight to that possibility. Like you already suspected.”

Her fingers slow on her phone. “Chelsea—”

“You knew. Somehow, you already knew there were more.”

“I suspected—”

“Bullshit.” I struggle to my feet, steadying myself against the stall wall. “You’re PR. You always know more than you let on. So what is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. I’m trying to help you.”

“Are you? Or are you managing me like any other crisis?” The pieces click together with sickening clarity. “Who have you been talking to? What information have you been—”

“Stop.” She stands too, and for the first time since I’ve known her, Maddy looks genuinely rattled. “You’re paranoid. Stressed. You’re seeing conspiracies where there are none.”

“Then explain how someone knew exactly where to be to get that photo. Explain how they knew about the equipment shed. Explain—”

“I can’t.” She meets my eyes, and what I see there makes my stomach drop. “I’m on your side, Chelsea. I swear. I have nothing to do with this. The fact that you’re accusing me means you know nothing about me. I haven’t been setting you up. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “It’s getting to my head. Sorry.”

But she’s already leaving, scoffing like I have some nerve to think that of her. Am I wrong though? She’s PR and very invested in Hendrix.

My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number:

Unknown: Time’s running out, Dr. Clark. 36 hours and counting.

I slide down the wall again, but this time it’s not panic crushing my chest.

It’s rage.

Pure, clarifying rage at being manipulated, managed, and maneuvered by people who saw my feelings as leverage and my career as collateral damage.

They want to destroy me? Fine.

But they’re about to learn that Chelsea Clark doesn’t go down quietly.

And she sure as hell doesn’t go down alone.