Page 11

OLIVIA

T he halls outside my office are quiet, the echo of the last closing door already faded.Everyone’s gone. I should go too. I should call it a night, lock up, head home, maybe try to sleep. But there’s a buzz under my skin that I can’t shake.

So instead, I change.

Tights. A loose t-shirt. Hair pulled back. Running shoes.

I haven’t run in months. Not really. But tonight, I need to move. Need the ache in my legs and the burn in my lungs to match the pressure behind my ribs.

The players' gym is dim, half the lights off, the room humming with that low ambient buzz of empty space. I step onto the treadmill, set it to a steady pace, and start moving. My AirPods are in, music thudding a beat that drowns out the thoughts.

Ten minutes in, I start to find a rhythm. My muscles begin to loosen. My chest opens up.

Something flickers in the mirror’s edge. My mind says ignore it. My gut knows better. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Motionless. Watching.

Sebastian.

And just like that, I miss my step.

The belt moves faster than my reaction time.

My foot slips.

And I hit the ground hard.

I’m not hurt. Just stunned, breath punched from my lungs and pride bruised.

Before I can gather myself, he’s there.

Great. Exactly the impression I want to leave—clumsy, breathless, and flat on my ass.

“You okay?” He crouches down beside me, hands hovering like he wants to touch but isn’t sure if he should. “Did you hit your head?”

"I'm fine." I sit up, waving him off. “Embarrassed, but fine." My heart thuds wildly in my chest. "You scared the hell out of me that's all.”

“I didn't think anyone would be here.” Those storm grey eyes pierce me with a look that burns. Intense. Hot. And slightly... vulnerable . Then he blinks and looks away.

He helps me up. His grip is firm, fingers curling just under my ribs as he lifts me—close enough that my chest brushes his. I swear I feel the tension in him, how tightly wound he is beneath all that control.

His fingers skim my elbow as he steps back, and my skin hums with the contact, stupid and sensitized.

He's all heat and quiet strength, and the nearness of him makes the hairs on the back of my neck lift. He tilts his head slightly, assessing, and for the briefest moment, his eyes flick to my lips before meeting my gaze again—so quick I can almost convince myself I imagined it.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I push back a stray strand of hair and give a wry smile. “My pride’s more bruised than anything else.”

He grunts. “You fall like that often?”

I crack a smile. “Only when I have an audience.”

That gets the barest twitch of his lips—barely—but it’s there.

Then his gaze drops. Jaw tightens. Shoulders lock. The heat fades—but not the weight. That stays, settling in my chest like a storm that hasn't hit yet.

“Rough day?” I ask, filling the silence before it swallows us whole.

There’s a pause, one heartbeat longer than comfortable.“Just... loud in my head tonight.”

That vulnerability is rare from him. A crack in the armor.

“I get that.” I shift to sit on the edge of a lifting bench and rub my ankle. He doesn’t move at first, then slides in beside me, our arms brushing. He smells like salt and sweat and something distinctly male—grounding and dangerous.

I keep my eyes forward, pretending not to notice the way my pulse trips. His thigh nudges mine again, and this time I swear he does it on purpose. My skin tingles where his touches mine, and my body betrays me—leaning a little too close, breathing a little too deep.

It’s dangerous, how easy it is to sit here. To let his body lean into mine like we’re something more than therapist and client. Like I’m not already standing on the edge of an ethical cliff.

"You run?" I ask, trying to regain my composure.

"Yeah." Short. Gruff.

“I started running to help clear my head. Used to be a sort of addiction. Wish I hadn't stopped for so long.”

He doesn't answer right away, just studies me with that unreadable expression.

“Why did you?” he asks. "Stop."

“Life.”

He grunts a small agreement. “Not sure what I’d do if I didn’t have hockey.”

“How’d you get into it?”

“I’m Canadian,” he says, a rare grin tugging at his lips, a look of nostalgia crossing his gaze briefly. “It’s in my blood.”

“I forgot that. I mean—I read it in your file,” I say too quickly, then clear my throat. “I skimmed everyone’s before I started.”

He stretches out a leg, his thigh brushing against mine again, this time staying there. Neither of us moves away.

“So you’re born with skates on up there?” I tease, deflecting the heat curling low in my belly.

"Pretty much." He shrugs. "I had a stick in my hand and skates on my feet as soon as I could walk."

“So your parents were all-in from the start?”

"Mostly my dad. He coached me until I was ten. After that he never missed a practice or a game.”

“He must be proud of you.”

“He died a year before I was drafted. Pancreatic cancer. Fast and brutal.”He leans back slightly, as if the confession costs him something.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. Something in his voice dips low, tired.

“What about the rest of your family?”

“Mom’s in Florida now. One of those fifty-five-plus places. She plays pickleball and sends me memes.”

A laugh slips out. “Do you see her much?”

“No. She’s not big on hockey. Never really was.”

“Any siblings?”

“Only child. Lucky me.”

“You say that like it’s a consolation prize.”

He huffs out a dry sound that could almost be a laugh. “It was. I got all the pressure and none of the buffer.”

“That sounds... about right,” I say with a small smile. “I had siblings. Sort of. They just didn’t know I existed.”

He looks over, silent.

“My mom’s great. Worked all the time. Provided everything. But I was alone a lot.”

He nods once.

“I guess that’s why I got so attached to Beth and Ron,” I say, a little lost in my own memories. “They’re more like family to me than my own.”

“Beth and Ron?” His voice gentles slightly, like the names matter, even if he doesn’t know why.

My thumb finds the empty space on my finger. I still do it out of habit. Like I expect the gold to be there. Like part of me refuses to believe it’s gone. “Ethan’s parents.”

“Right,” he says gruffly.

His voice wraps around the name like it’s something sharp, and I feel his energy shift. Pulling back again.

“I should go,” he says, standing quickly.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more, like there’s a confession caught in his throat. But whatever it is, he swallows it—and turns away.

“Sebastian—” I barely get the word out. But he’s already walking. Like the air between us didn’t just crack open.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Because no matter what I feel when I’m around him—no matter how many lines my heart wants to blur— this can never happen.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I reach for it. A text.

Matt Rodriguez. One of Ethan’s old army buddies. I haven’t heard from him in years.

Hey. Heard you were in the city. I’m in town for a couple days. Want to catch up?

I stare at the screen for a long moment. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Part of me wants to ignore it. Pretend I didn’t see it. But the other part—the part still holding onto some thread of who I was before—types back.

Sure. The Blue Mug Café across from Stonegate Arena. Lunch tomorrow?

Even if I wanted to outrun the past, it never stays gone for long.

It finds me in texts like this. In names I haven’t spoken out loud in years.

In the ache of wanting something again—when I promised myself I never would.