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OLIVIA

P eople don’t unravel all at once.

It happens slowly. In quiet ways. In missed calls and forced smiles, in sleepless nights and shoulders that never fully relax.

If you look close enough. Listen. Pay attention. It's easy to read the tiny tells. A twitch of the jaw. A shift in posture. The way someone grips a coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping them grounded.

I’m good at seeing it. At untangling it.

At helping people put themselves back together—even when I haven’t quite figured out how to do the same.

That’s what makes me good at my job.

Not the certifications or degrees or polished professionalism.

It’s the broken parts I’ve learned to keep quiet. I don’t just understand pain. I’ve lived in it long enough to call it home.

I walk through the side entrance of the Annihilators’ Arena, the hush of the hallway swallowing the sound of the door closing behind me.

The security guard barely glances up when I give my name.

Clipboard check. Radio click. A pause, then a nod toward the door behind him, brief directions murmured without making eye contact.

I adjust the strap of my leather tote and keep moving.

It’s all muscle memory by now—showing up, staying calm, blending in until they stop seeing you as a threat and start seeing you as help.

But even before I meet a single player, this place feels different.

Heavier somehow. Pressure poured into the concrete. Sealed into every inch of this place.

Maybe it’s just the nerves.

Or maybe it’s instinct. The kind that warns you when something’s going to pull you in deeper than it should.

A door up ahead swings open, and a man steps into the hallway. Broad shoulders. Silver hair. Sharp, watchful eyes that flick straight to me.

I recognize him immediately.

“Coach Jacobs,” I say, offering my hand as he approaches. “Olivia Hart. It’s good to meet you.”

“Appreciate you coming on board,” he says, giving a quick handshake before motioning for me to follow. “League’s been riding our asses about wellness compliance. Truth is, we should’ve had someone like you years ago.”

I nod, falling in step beside him, already sensing the fractures buried beneath the team's polished image.

“You won’t win everyone over away.” His stride doesn’t slow, but there’s a stiffness to the way he moves, like the words are welded to something heavier. “I’ve got guys who’ve taken more hits off the ice than on. They don’t talk about it—but it shows."

“I know mandatory counseling can put people on edge.” I match his pace, keeping my tone even. “Earning trust takes time.”

He gestures as we walk—therapy room upstairs, player lounge to the left, medical through the next hall—a verbal tour as we move deeper into the facility.

We stop in front of a wide, steel-gray door, the team’s logo stenciled near the top. When Coach opens it, I hear music, laughter, the metallic clatter of sticks.

“You’ll do fine,” he says. But something about the way he says it makes it feel less like reassurance and more like warning. Like he’s seen enough to know it won’t be easy—and he’s trusting me to do it anyway.

Then he keeps walking, and I follow him straight into the chaos of post-practice.

There’s a buzz of movement—tape ripping, gear thudding against benches, voices scattered beneath the steady pulse of bass. The air is laced with exhaustion, sarcasm, and the edge of adrenaline still bleeding off the ice.

A few players glance over. One of them whistles, low and careless.

“Don’t even think about it,” comes a voice from the back.

I don’t know who said it.

But then I see him.

Sitting on one of the benches, half in shadow, a towel slung over his broad shoulder. Still. Unbothered. The kind of presence people notice without knowing why.

Sebastian Wilde.

I know his face and name from his file. The highlight reels. The injury reports that read more like a combat log.

Defenseman. Thirty. Physical. Disciplined. Press-shy to the point of hostility.

He doesn’t speak often on camera. But when he does, there’s something clipped and quiet in it—controlled, like everything is weighed before it’s allowed out.

His eyes pass over me once. Slate gray. Sharp. Unreadable. Not a flicker of interest—just a quick assessment, like I’m another box to check before moving on.

I glance around, taking in body language. A few players are guarded. Some too curious. One already sizing me up. I know that look. I’ve worked with soldiers, cops, fire crews. The kind of men who confuse silence for strength and therapy for weakness.

I’ll have my hands full here.

“Hey,” says a voice beside me. I turn.

Blake Starowics. Goalie. Clean-cut, calm presence. Familiar from the files and the press.

“You must be the new shrink,” he says.

“Counselor,” I clarify with a quick smile.

He grins, easy and crooked. “Well, counselor —welcome to the chaos.”

Before I can respond, Coach clears his throat.

“Alright, listen up,” he says. “This is Olivia Hart. She’s your new mental health consultant. She’s certified in trauma therapy, grief counseling, performance psych. Worked with first responders, military vets, and now—lucky her—she gets to deal with all of you.”

A low chuckle rolls through the group.

Coach doesn’t smile. “She’s here to keep you sharp—off the ice as much as on it. Her door’s open. When she’s available, you will be too. That’s not a suggestion. That’s league policy. And more than that—it’s common damn sense.”

He pauses, his stare going pointed.

“Give her the respect you’d give anyone else on staff. Probably more. She’s got the patience to deal with the lot of you.”

Some nods. One smirk I ignore.

Coach gestures toward the door. “Wilde—show her to her space upstairs.”

My eyes snap to Sebastian. He doesn’t move for half a second. Then a slow inhale, jaw set. He stands like the weight of the room just landed on his shoulders.

He walks toward me without hurry.

“Let’s go,” he mutters.

Not rude. But not warm.

He doesn’t wait for me to follow. Just brushes past and keeps walking.

I fall in beside him, adjusting my bag higher on my shoulder as we move in silence down a long back hallway. His stride is unhurried, posture closed—no invitation in him, just quiet walls built with purpose.

When we reach the elevator, he presses the button, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The elevator dings.

He steps in first. I follow.

It’s tight. Quiet.

Too quiet.

I watch the numbers climbing overhead, willing myself not to notice the way he fills the space. Or his scent—faint sweat clinging to cotton, and whatever lingers when the gear comes off. Grounded. Male.

My pulse betrays me.

I steal a glance. His jaw’s clenched. His eyes stay forward. Hands flex once, then still.

It’s not attraction I feel. Not really.

But I’m not blind.

The man is gorgeous in that rough, unyielding way—sharp cheekbones, a cut jaw, skin still flushed from exertion.

His hair is dark and damp at the edges, curling slightly at the nape.

And that body… built not just to take impact, but to own it—like he was made for collisions and came out the other side harder.

There's tension in him, but not the sharp kind that comes with ego or arrogance.This is quieter. Like a man who’s been carrying something too long to call it heavy anymore.

The elevator doors open. He steps out, shoulder brushing mine.

Barely a touch.

Still, I feel it more than I should.

“You always this quiet after practice?” I ask, voice lighter than I feel.

“Sometimes,” he says.But there’s the briefest hesitation—like he almost said more.

I nod to myself and fall into step behind him.

He stops outside a plain door.

“This’ll be yours...therapy, wellness, whatever. ”

I glance around the room. Empty desk. Neutral walls. A start.

“You good here?”

I turn to answer—and catch him watching me. Not casual. Not curious. Just... watching.

Something flickers in those stormy grey eyes.

Just for a breath. Then gone.

He shifts, hand curling around the doorframe. The line of his shoulders taut, like something’s always held in check.

“I’m good,” I say.

He gives a short nod. “Alright then.”

And he’s gone. No small talk. No lingering.

Just footsteps echoing down the hall.

I sit. Open my MacBook. Start a list.

When I assess a new job, I look for the emotional climate first. Not the individuals. Not yet.

There’s no chaos here. Just quiet strain.

That’s where I start.

With the weight no one’s admitting to. The sharp edges they’ve learned to live around. The ways people cope that look like discipline but are really defense.

I’ve seen it before. With first responders. With soldiers. With every team that runs hard and burns out faster than they know how to recover.

So I’ll do what I always do.

Watch. Listen. Wait for the shift.

Not in them. In the room.

Because tension always moves before people do.

And when it does, I’ll be ready.