Page 13

SEBASTIAN

I watch her walk away, each step cutting a deeper line down the center of my chest. She doesn’t look back. Of course she doesn’t. I don’t deserve that.

My husband died three years ago.

Those words won’t stop ringing in my ears. The way her voice cracked. The way she folded into herself like she was trying to keep everything from falling out.

I didn’t just cross a line. I torched it. Burned it to ash.

Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?

I stand there long after she’s gone, cold air gnawing at my skin like penance. And maybe it is.

I thought she was married. I thought?—

No. I didn’t think.

I reacted.

Like I always fucking do when something touches a nerve I thought I buried deep enough.

I hurt her. Bad.

And she didn’t deserve it. Not one second of it.

By the time I get to practice, my mood’s a slow-rolling storm.

I skate like shit. Miss passes. Blow coverage. Branson shoots me a look after I tank a play, and I shove him without thinking. Doesn’t take much for it to escalate—gloves fly, fists connect.

Whistles scream. Kane’s pulling me off, yelling something I don’t hear.

Everything’s a blur.

After practice, the locker room is heavy with tension. No one talks to me. Good. I don’t want them to.

Until Ryder opens his damn mouth.

"You swingin' for the opposing team now, Wilde? Or just pissed your flavor of the month shut you down?"

I’m on him before I think. Fist to jaw. Shoulder to the wall.

Kane rips me back again, his voice low and sharp. "Enough. You want to get suspended? Keep going."

Ryder spits blood into the sink, grinning. "Touched a nerve, huh?"

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, the rage still burning through my chest.

Kane drags me out.

We’re barely in the hallway before he shoves me against the wall—not hard, but enough to get my attention.

"What the hell is going on with you, man?" he hisses, eyes flaring. "You trying to burn down what’s left of your career? Or just your life?"

I don’t answer. Can’t. My hands are still balled into fists, and my chest won’t stop heaving.

The sound of sharp footsteps cuts through the tension—measured, controlled, unmistakably Jacobs.

Coach rounds the corner, jaw tight, eyes assessing the damage in a blink.

He snaps his fingers, sharp and clipped, then points at me like I’m some rookie who just puked on his skates.

"Office. Now."

We don’t say a word until his office door slams behind me.

Jacobs crosses the room, sits down at his desk. Doesn’t look up right away. He just keeps writing something on a clipboard. Then he sets the pen down and lifts his gaze.

"Sit."

I do. Barely.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?"

I shrug. “Bad day.”

He leans forward, steepling his fingers. "That’s not a bad day. That’s a self-destruct sequence."

I don’t respond. What the fuck am I supposed to say?

“You’ve been off for weeks, Wilde. But today? That was different.”

Still, I say nothing.

Coach sighs, shakes his head. “You’re a hell of a player. But even you aren’t untouchable. You pull that shit again, and you’ll be benched. Or worse.”

I nod once and leave.

The halls feel colder than usual. My boots echo too loud.

When I round the corner, I see her.

Olivia.

Standing outside her office, notebook in hand, hair tied up like she means business. She’s talking to Tyler, but when she sees me, her expression freezes.

I stop a few feet away.

“Olivia,” I say, voice low. “Can I talk to you?”

She glances at Tyler, then back at me. “I have a session.”

“I just... I didn’t know. About your husband.”

Her eyes don’t soften. They sharpen—like she’s cataloging just how wrong I got it. “Well. Now you do.”

My chest tightens. “I thought you were married. I saw the ring and I just… I reacted.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Not softness. Something colder.

“Reacted?” she echoes. “You mean you assumed and then verbally attacked me?”

I don’t answer. Because she’s not wrong.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” I murmur.

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Tyler clears his throat, eyeing me with one brow raised, and a cocky grin tugging at his lips.

“I have a session,” she repeats, and turns her back to me.

Tyler mutters under his breath as he steps inside, “Smooth, Wilde.”

I glare at him, but I don't even care about the snide comment.

I want to say more. To explain. To have her look at me like she did before.

But she’s already gone.

And the door clicks shut in my face.

She didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. Just shut me out with that cold, professional calm—the kind that cuts deeper than anger.

Whatever was starting between us?

I killed it.