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“You want to do what?” GM Patterson’s voice climbs an octave, making him sound like he’s been breathing helium instead of managing million-dollar athletes.

“Unscripted interview. Full disclosure. No PR handlers.” I lean back in the conference room chair, watching his face cycle through the five stages of executive panic. “Twenty minutes on Sports Center , and I tell the whole story.”

“Absolutely not.” Media Director Cara Wallace slides a folder across the table. “We’ve spent months rebuilding your image. Quiet integration, community work, zero controversy. Why would you torpedo that now?”

“Because hiding isn’t rebuilding. It’s just expensive procrastination.”

Coach Norton studies me with the kind of attention he usually reserves for game tape. “What exactly do you want to say, Hendrix?”

“The truth. About Chicago. About what really happened. About whom was actually responsible.”

“The truth?” Patterson laughs, but it’s sharp, nervous. “The truth is a luxury we can’t afford. You think admitting to an affair with your therapist helps anyone?”

“I think letting her take the blame alone while I hide behind image consultants makes me a coward.”

The room goes quiet. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the practice rink where I’ve been skating in shadows for months, proving myself to teammates who aren’t sure I won’t implode again.

“She’s not your responsibility anymore,” Cara says carefully. “Whatever guilt you’re carrying—”

“This isn’t about guilt. It’s about accuracy.”

“Accuracy?” Patterson’s control is fraying. “You want to sacrifice months of damage control for accuracy?”

“I want to stop letting people think she seduced me for her own gain. I want to stop letting her father’s reputation overshadow the fact that she’s brilliant at her job. I want to—” I stop, realizing how much I’m revealing. “I want to tell the truth.”

Coach Norton leans forward. “And what is the truth, in your opinion?”

“That Dr. Chelsea Clark is the best sports psychologist I’ve ever worked with. That she helped me become a better player and a better person. That when we crossed professional lines, it was mutual. And that every consequence she’s faced has been worse than anything that happened to me.”

“You can’t know that,” Cara objects.

“She lost her career, her reputation, her relationship with her father. She’s been called everything from a gold-digger to a home-wrecker by people who don’t know her name. Meanwhile, I got traded to a better team with a raise.”

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Patterson drums his fingers against the table, clearly calculating the cost of my honesty against the benefit of continued reputation management.

“The network won’t go easy on you,” he warns finally. “They’ll want ratings. Drama. They’ll try to make you look like either a victim or a predator.”

“Let them try.”

“Reed.” Coach’s voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen too many careers destroyed by ego. “You sure about this? Once you say it, you can’t take it back.”

“I’m sure.”

Three days later, I’m sitting across from Stuart Owens in the Sports Center studio. The lights are hot, the cameras unforgiving, and somewhere in America, people are about to hear me admit to the biggest mistake and best decision of my professional life.

“Reed Hendrix,” Stuart begins with the kind of smooth authority that makes careers, “six months ago, you were one of hockey’s most controversial players. Tonight, you’re sitting here with the Boston Blizzards, trying to rebuild your reputation. Let’s start with Chicago. What really happened?”

I look directly into the camera, imagining Chelsea somewhere watching this, probably cursing my name for dragging her back into the spotlight.

“I fell in love with my therapist.”

Stuart’s eyebrows rise slightly. He was expecting deflection, damage control, the usual athlete non-answers.

“That’s pretty direct.”

“It’s the truth. Dr. Chelsea Clark was assigned as my mental performance coach after a series of suspensions for fighting. She was brilliant, professional, and completely committed to helping me manage my anger issues.”

“But something changed?”

“Yeah. I changed. Working with her, I started understanding the patterns that led to my violent behavior. Started addressing the family issues and pressure that I’d been ignoring. For the first time in my career, I was playing hockey for the right reasons instead of just trying to survive.”

“And that led to romantic feelings?”

“It led to me realizing she saw something in me worth fixing. That she believed I could be better than my worst moments.” I pause, choosing words carefully.

“The professional relationship became personal gradually, over months. It wasn’t some sudden seduction or manipulation.

It was two people connecting despite knowing they shouldn’t. ”

“But she was your therapist. There are ethical guidelines—”

“There are. And we violated them. Both of us. Equally.” I lean forward, making sure my next words are crystal clear.

“But let me be absolutely clear about something—Dr. Clark never used her position inappropriately. If anything, she fought against her feelings longer and harder than I did. She tried to maintain boundaries I kept pushing.”

“You’re saying you pursued her?”

“I’m saying we fell for each other despite every rational reason not to. And when consequences came, she faced them with more dignity than I managed.”

Stuart glances at his notes, probably recalibrating his angle. “There were rumors about your anger management, about whether the relationship affected your therapy...”

“The relationship made my therapy more effective, not less. Working with Chelsea—Dr. Clark—I had the best statistical season of my career. Lowest penalty minutes, highest scoring output, best team chemistry rating. She made me a better player by making me a better person.”

“Until it all fell apart.”

“Until things got taken out of context. There’s a difference.”

“Do you regret it?”

The question I’ve been asked a dozen different ways by therapists, teammates, family. The one I’ve never answered honestly because honesty feels like betrayal—of Chelsea’s sacrifice, of the team’s investment, of the image everyone’s trying to rebuild.

“I regret how it ended. I regret the cost to her career, to her reputation, to her relationship with her father. I regret that she’s faced consequences that were disproportionate to mine.

” I meet Stuart’s eyes. “But I don’t regret falling in love with someone who saw the best version of me and demanded I live up to it. ”

“That’s a romantic way to put it.”

“It’s an honest way to put it.”

Stuart shuffles his papers, clearly hoping for something more salacious. “There have been allegations about inappropriate conduct, about you using your position as a player to—”

“Stop.” The word comes out harder than intended, but I don’t soften it. “I know what you’re fishing for. Some story about the troubled athlete taking advantage of the naive therapist. That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

“What happened is two adults made a choice that cost them both everything they’d worked for.

What happened is the woman got blamed for seducing me while the man got sympathy for being led astray.

What happened is someone brilliant and dedicated and genuinely committed to helping people has been painted as an opportunist by people who never met her. ”

“You sound like you’re still in love with her.”

The observation hits like I wasn’t expecting. On national television, with my new team watching, with Chelsea probably watching, with my entire future hanging on how I handle this moment.

“I’m grateful to her,” I say finally. “For seeing something in me worth saving. For teaching me that anger didn’t have to define me. For believing I could be better than my worst moments.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m trying to prove her right.”

The interview continues for another ten minutes—questions about Boston, about my community work, about whether I think I deserve a second chance. But the parts that matter are already done. The truth, messy and complicated and probably career-damaging, is out there.

Afterward, in the green room, my phone explodes with notifications. Twitter mentions, text messages, missed calls from Jerry having seven different kinds of panic attacks.

Jerry: What the fuck was that?

Jerry: Do you know what you just did to your marketability?

Jerry: Call me. NOW.

But there are other messages too. From teammates. From coaches. From people I haven’t heard from in months.

Thompson: Proud of you, man. That took balls.

Weston: About fucking time someone told the truth.

Sophie’s mom: Saw your interview. This is why the kids love you—you’re real.

And then, buried among dozens of notifications, one that makes my chest tight.

Unknown number: Thank you. -C

Just two words and an initial.

She saw it. She heard me tell the truth about us, about her, about what we were and what she meant. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, she reached out.

It’s a new phone number.

I stare at the message until the screen goes dark, then read it again. Two words that feel like forgiveness, like acknowledgment, like the possibility that maybe telling the truth was worth it.

Maybe honesty really is the best policy, even when it burns everything down.

Maybe especially then.

The clip goes viral within hours—not for the scandal, but for the sincerity. Comments praising my honesty, defending Chelsea, calling for more athletes to take responsibility for their actions instead of hiding behind PR speak.

My phone keeps buzzing, but I ignore everything except those two words that mean everything.

Thank you.

For the first time in months, I feel like I did something right.

Even if it cost me everything else.