Page 9

The first rule of redemption is pretending you don’t need it, so I walk into the United Center like I own the fucking place.

Never mind that I haven’t set foot in here for months. Never mind that my reinstatement came with more conditions than a prenup. Never mind that half my teammates probably bet on how long before I fuck up again.

“Hendrix!” A reporter shoves a microphone in my face before I’m three steps inside. “How does it feel to be back?”

“Like Christmas morning,” I deadpan, pushing past.

They swarm like sharks smelling blood. Questions about my brother, about the anger management, about whether I’m a liability. I give them nothing but shoulder checks and silence until security finally does their job.

The locker room goes quiet when I enter. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes tracking me like I’m a live grenade with a loose pin. Even Weston, my supposed best friend, just nods before turning back to his gear.

Message received.

I find my stall. The same spot, like they were afraid to give it to someone else in case I came back swinging. My gear’s all here, pristine and waiting. The equipment managers, at least, still have my back.

“Welcome back.” Coach Williams appears at my shoulder, voice carefully neutral. We both know he fought against my reinstatement. We both know he lost.

“Coach.”

“You’re on the third line tonight. Prove you belong higher.”

Third line. I’ve been first line since my second year, but I nod like demotion tastes good. Like I haven’t been watching every game from my apartment, screaming at the TV when they blew lead after lead.

“Team meeting in five,” he adds. “We’ve got someone new to introduce.”

Great. Another rookie to babysit or some consultant to tell us how to “maximize our potential.” I lace up my skates with unnecessary force, ignoring the weight of my teammates’ silence.

Marcus finally breaks. “How was the gulag?”

“Educational.” I test my edges against the rubber floor. “Learn anything while I was gone?”

“Yeah. How to lose spectacularly.”

At least the kid’s honest. Our record since my suspension has been embarrassing. Two wins in eight weeks. Not that anyone’s asking, but we’ve been missing my particular brand of controlled chaos.

“Alright, listen up!” Williams’ voice cuts through the pre- practice noise. “Before we hit the ice, I want to introduce our new mental performance coach. Some of you have heard we’re bringing in specialized support.”

Mental performance coach. Fancy title for someone to ask about our feelings while we hemorrhage goals.

“She’ll be working with each of you individually to address performance issues, mental blocks, whatever’s keeping you from playing at your best.”

She. Interesting. Half the room perks up at that.

“A reminder that this is a professional relationship. She’s also my daughter, so anyone who forgets that professionalism will answer to me. Clear?”

Nervous laughter ripples through the room. Coach’s daughter . This should be fun to watch. All thirty hormonal athletes trying not to hit on someone who could end their careers with one complaint to daddy.

“Gentlemen, Dr. Chelsea Clark.”

The door opens, and my entire world tilts off its axis.

Because walking into our locker room in a professional blazer and heels that make her legs look illegal is her. Vegas. My ghost. The woman whose name and number I’d tried to decode for weeks.

Her name’s Chelsea Clark. Coach’s daughter. Jesus fuck.

I lean back in my stall, a grin spreading across my face before I can stop it. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“No fucking way,” I mutter, just loud enough for Marcus to hear.

Is this why she ran? She pretended to not know who I was and now knowing that her father has been my coach feels like a punch to the fucking throat.

Pieces of the puzzle start coming together.

It’s no wonder she didn’t tell me her name, she probably gave me the wrong number, but nothing beats having her in the same room with me after all this time.

I know she knows I’m here.

“What?” Marcus asks.

But I’m not answering. I’m too busy watching her scan the room with cool professionalism, her expression giving away nothing. She looks good. Way better than my memories, which I’d convinced myself were exaggerated by whiskey and wishful thinking.

Her hair’s pulled back in some complicated twist that makes me remember how it felt spread across my pillows. The blazer’s buttoned up tight, but I know what’s underneath. Know the sounds she makes when—

Her eyes find mine.

For one perfect second, her mask slips. I see recognition, panic, and something else flash across her face before she locks it down. But I saw it. She knows exactly who I am.

This is better than Christmas.

She recovers like a pro, addressing the team about mental preparation and competitive edge while I study every micro-expression. The way her hands gesture when she talks. The slight rasp in her voice that takes me back to a hotel room and promises we didn’t keep.

“Questions?” she asks, and I have about a thousand, starting with why she gave me a fake number and ending with what she’s wearing under that blazer.

Williams asks about her objectivity—kid’s got balls—and she handles it smoothly. But when she says, “we all have baggage,” her eyes flick to mine for just a heartbeat.

Yeah, sweetheart. We certainly do.

When she escapes after the meeting, I’m on my feet before my brain catches up. She power-walks down the corridor like she’s being chased, those heels clicking out a rhythm that matches my pulse.

“Vegas.”

She stops but doesn’t turn immediately. When she does, her face is a mask of professional indifference.

“It’s Dr. Clark. And you are?”

The words hit like a slap shot to the chest. She’s really going to play it like this?

“Reed Hendrix.” I extend my hand, playing along with her charade. “Right wing.”

She shakes it quickly, efficiently, like touching me burns. “Mr. Hendrix. I look forward to our session.”

“About that—”

“Schedule with my assistant. Excuse me.”

And she’s gone, leaving me standing in the hallway like an idiot. Dr. Clark. Like I didn’t have her begging for more in a Vegas hotel. Like she didn’t write her number on my arm before disappearing.

Except she did disappear. And the number was smudged. And now she’s here, in my world, pretending we’re strangers.

“You good?” Weston appears beside me, finally ready to acknowledge my existence.

“Peachy.”

He studies me with the kind of attention that made him captain. “You know her?”

“Never seen her before in my life.”

“Bullshit. You looked like someone stole your favorite toy and gave it back broken.”

I force my shoulders to relax. “Just surprised Coach has a daughter hot enough to—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll let Coach bench you permanently.” But he’s smiling now, some of the ice between us thawing. “Seriously though. Don’t fuck with her. We need this—someone to get our heads right. And you need to stay out of trouble.”

“When have I ever been trouble?”

He lists about seventeen examples before I cut him off. Point taken.

Practice is brutal. Months of skating alone doesn’t compare to game-speed drills, and Coach seems determined to make me earn every second of ice time. By the time we’re done, I’m gasping and seriously reconsidering my life choices.

But all I can think about is her.

I shower longer than necessary, letting hot water beat against muscles that’ll be screaming tomorrow. She’s here. In Chicago. Working for the team. Close enough to touch but wrapped in professional barriers and her father’s protection.

It’s torture. It’s perfect. It’s absolutely going to end badly.

When I finally emerge, most of the guys have cleared out. I’m heading for the exit when Patricia Holbrook intercepts me.

“Hendrix. My office.”

The GM’s office hasn’t changed. It’s still intimidating, still smelling like leather and disappointment. She gestures for me to sit, then spends a solid minute just staring at me.

“Your reinstatement is conditional,” she finally says.

“I’m aware.”

“Are you? Because your reaction to Dr. Clark suggests otherwise.”

Jesus. Does everyone have eyes in this place?

“I was surprised. Coach having a daughter is news.”

“Your surprise looked personal.”

I meet her stare steadily. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She leans back, fingers steepled. “You chased after her.” Silence falls.

“Let me be crystal clear. Dr. Clark is here to help this team’s mental performance.

She is a respected professional and Coach Clark’s daughter.

Any behavior that compromises her ability to do her job or creates a hostile work environment will result in immediate termination of your contract. ”

I don’t blink. “Understood.”

“Furthermore, you will attend all scheduled sessions with her. You will be respectful, professional, and cooperative. Any complaints from her about your behavior go straight to the league. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.” She slides a paper across the desk. “Your session schedule. First appointment is tomorrow at ten.”

I glance at the paper. Weekly sessions, mandatory attendance, progress reports to management. Basically, I’m being forced to spend regular alone time with the woman who’s haunted my dreams for two years while pretending I don’t know how she tastes.

This should be interesting.

“One more thing,” Patricia adds as I stand to leave. “I know you think you’re untouchable because of your talent. You’re not. This is your last chance, Hendrix. Don’t waste it. She is a woman in authority who could end your career with one word to her father.”

I leave without responding, the schedule burning in my pocket. Tomorrow at ten. Less than eighteen hours to figure out how to be in a room with Dr. Chelsea Clark without revealing that I’ve spent two years trying to forget her.