Page 19

SEBASTIAN

T he crowd’s loud—hostile loud. Not the kind that roots for you. The kind that wants to see you bleed.

I tune it out.

The second my skates hit the ice, everything else disappears. The noise. The pressure. The city that hates us just enough to make me want this more.

We've been on a streak—tight plays, clean wins. Tonight’s no different. I skate like I’ve got something to prove, but I keep it disciplined. No penalties. No flare. Just hard, fast, efficient hockey.

Slade scores midway through the third—top shelf, stick-side. Kid’s got skill. The bench erupts. Even Coach cracks half a grin.

We hold the lead till the final buzzer. I come off the ice breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes, but my head’s clearer than it’s been in days. Not because we won. Not because I played clean. But because I knew she was here.

Olivia's somewhere in the arena. Probably the media box or the scouting level, wherever Coach thought she’d be most out of the way.

She doesn’t usually travel for away games. Hell, most teams don’t even send their mental health staff on the road. But this time’s different.

Last week, our second-string goalie, Calle Johansson, lost his wife and five-year-old daughter in a car accident—hit head-on by a drunk driver on their way home from a team event.

Whole fucking team’s still reeling.

Guys are trying to hold it together, but it’s rough. Quiet locker room. Short fuses. Eyes red when they think no one’s looking.

Coach asked Olivia to come on the road. Said if there was ever a time the guys needed her, it’s now. He’s not wrong.

Truth is?—

It gutted all of us.

Even me.

And I don’t say that lightly.

I’ve seen some shit. Been through enough to build walls a mile high. But there’s something about seeing a man fold in half in a hallway with his fists in his hair and a daughter’s crayon drawing still in his locker…

Yeah. That stays with you.

So no, I’m not surprised Coach wanted Olivia here.

And I’d be lying if I said part of me isn’t selfishly glad. Because even if she’s not here for me—just knowing she’s in the building… it fucks with my head in a way that makes me feel almost sane again.

Almost.

She’s been distant since the bar—no lingering looks, no conversations beyond the professional. It’s smart. Necessary. And still, it guts me.

In the locker room, Kane and Blake are talking quietly.

"Heard anything from Calle?" Blake asks, pulling tape off his wrists.

Kane shakes his head, his expression grim. "Not really. Just that the funeral was private. Fucking brutal."

"How do you even come back from that?" Blake murmurs.

Silence stretches. Even Slade keeps quiet.

Love’s fucking dangerous. Fragile. Doesn’t matter how tight you hold it—life can rip it away just the same.

After the postgame shower, I try to sleep.

Hotel sheets. Too white. Too stiff. The pillows don’t hold shape, and the HVAC unit clicks every few minutes like it’s got a goddamn grudge.

Too much silence.

Not the good kind. Not the rare, clean kind that settles in your chest and lets you breathe. This is the kind that crawls under your skin and starts gnawing.

I kick off the blanket. Drag it back up. Flip the pillow. Stare at the ceiling like it might blink first.

My body’s tired—shoulders sore, legs heavy—but my brain’s still moving. Still stuck in the game. In the locker room. In the grief.And under it all—her.

No idea what room Olivia's staying in, probably a separate floor. Doesn’t matter. She’s close enough to feel.

Like gravity.

By 11:30, I give up.

Throw on a hoodie, jeans. Slide my cap low and head down to the bar. Half expecting it to be dead.

It isn’t.

Dim lights, quiet jazz bleeding from the speakers. A few couples at tables. Business guys nursing scotch. I scan the room—and freeze.

Back corner.

Olivia.

Her laptop’s open, screen casting pale light over her face. A half-full glass of wine beside her. She’s got her hair pulled back in that low twist she does when she’s tired. And her eyes—red-rimmed. Like she’s been crying.

My gut clenches.

I move toward her before I can think twice.

"You okay?" I ask, voice low.

She startles, then softens when she sees it’s me. But there’s a wall. Not the kind I can break through. The kind she’s built brick by brick, probably for good reason.

"Just finishing up some notes," she says.

I nod, glance at the laptop. "Want company?"

She hesitates. Then, quietly, "Yeah."

I settle into the chair across from her. The table’s small, tucked into the back corner—just enough distance from the rest of the room to make it feel like we’re in our own bubble.

The lighting’s low, shadows soft around her face. Her laptop screen is the brightest thing between us, casting a pale blue across her features.

I flag the server, order a beer. Nothing fancy. Just something cold to put between my hands.

She finishes her notes in silence. A few last clicks. Her fingers slow, deliberate. When she finally closes the laptop, it’s with a soft snap that feels louder than it should.

She exhales like it took something out of her just to stop working.

“You’ve been at it a while,” I say, nodding toward the laptop. “Long day?”

Her hand curls loosely around her wine glass. “They’re all long lately.”

She doesn’t say it for sympathy. Just fact.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “They are.”

She takes a sip of her wine, then sets the glass down. Her fingers linger on the stem like she needs the anchor.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks, her eyes steady on mine—quiet, knowing, impossible to lie to. “With everything that’s happened.”

I lean back, stretch my legs under the table.

“I don't know Calle that well. Not off the ice. But…” I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know someone personally to feel it.”

She watches me, silent.

I swirl my beer once, watching the bubbles rise. “I keep thinking about what it would be like to lose someone like that. A whole piece of your world just...gone.”

She’s quiet.

Too quiet.

And it hits me.

Fuck.

Her husband.

I look up. Her expression hasn’t changed, but her shoulders are tight. Her jaw clenched just slightly.

“Sorry. I—” I start, but she cuts me off gently.

“I know,” she says. Then adds, quieter, “It’s okay.”

But it’s not.

Because I didn’t just touch a nerve—I walked right into her grief without even thinking.

And now all I want to do is take her hand across this too-small table and promise her she doesn’t have to carry it alone.

But I don’t.Because that line—the one we keep crossing and pretending we didn’t—it’s still there.

Barely.

But it’s there.

She looks away first. Just for a second. Long enough for me to see the way her throat works when she swallows.

“I used to think being in control was a superpower,” she says, voice soft. “Like if I just planned well enough, stayed calm enough, did everything right—then nothing bad would happen. Like I could outmaneuver life if I was just...good enough.”

She lets out a breath, not quite a laugh.

“I followed every rule. Got the degrees. Took the right jobs. Paid our bills instead of taking vacations. I checked every damn box.”

She pauses, fingers tightening briefly around her glass.

“And it didn’t matter.”

Her voice goes quiet. Not shaky—just stripped down. Honest in a way that feels dangerous.

“Life still threw the punch. Still knocked me flat. No warning, no mercy. Just...gone. One minute he was there, and the next, I was signing papers I never thought I’d have to sign in a hospital room that smelled like bleach and every broken thing I couldn’t fix.”

She blinks once. Then again. Eyes dry, but heavy.

“And now this thing with Calle’s family—it’s like someone cracked open the same wound. Different faces, different story, but the same lesson all over again.”

She pauses.

And when she finally lifts her eyes to mine, it’s like the floor drops out from under me.

No armor. No deflection. Just her.

Wide open. Raw.

A flicker of grief buried so deep it’s fused with her bones. Strength laced with exhaustion. And something else too—something sharp and quiet and aching. Something that begs me not to look away.

I don’t.

I couldn’t if I tried.

Her lips part, like she might say more, but nothing comes. Just that look. Like she’s handing me every cracked piece of herself without knowing if I’ll take them.

And then, softly, she says, “It doesn’t matter how hard you try. Doesn’t matter how tightly you hold it all together. Life still finds a way to kick your ass. And when it does, no amount of being the 'strong one' saves you.”

The words hang in the air between us. Raw. Sharp-edged. Real.

She exhales slowly. “I think that’s what hit me hardest this week. Not just Calle’s grief. But the reminder that no one’s untouchable.”

She toys with her napkin, twisting the edge between her fingers like it’ll unravel something she’s too afraid to say outloud.

“I spent so long trying to be the one people leaned on. I didn’t know what to do when there was no one left to lean back on. It's just...so fucking lonely.”

So fucking lonely.

The words hit harder than they should. Or maybe exactly how they should.

Because I know that feeling. Too fucking well.

Lonely's not a season for me—it’s the weather. Constant. Background noise I stopped noticing years ago. A dull ache that just...exists. Doesn’t matter how loud the crowd is, how full the room is—I’m always on the outside of it. Watching, never part of it.

I don’t even remember what it feels like not to be alone.

Except when I'm with her.

I exhale, and drag a hand across the back of my neck.

“I get it,” I say finally. Voice low. Rough. “Not in the same way. Not even close.”

She looks at me—not pushing, just waiting.

“When my dad died...”

I pause. Short, sharp.

“He was... fuck, he was everything. Not perfect. Not even close. But he was solid. Didn’t lie to me. Didn’t let me lie to myself. He kept me... tethered, I guess.”

I clear my throat. Glance down at my beer.

“When he died, something in me snapped. I stopped giving a shit. Didn’t know how to hold the pieces without him, so I didn’t. Just let 'em fall.”

Her expression doesn’t shift, but something in her posture softens.

“I hurt people,” I admit. “Said and did things I still can’t look straight at. Stuff I can’t fix, even if I wanted to.”

A bitter breath. “It’s not the same kind of grief. You and Calle...you lost people you loved who loved you back. Mine—I caused mine. Dug my own hole and jumped in.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her voice is soft, steady. “Grief can’t be compared, Sebastian.”

I meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to earn it or justify it,” she says. “It just is.”

Those words hit something raw and old in me—something I thought I buried years ago under adrenaline and grit and games where pain is currency.

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I don’t.

Just nod once and look away, because if I keep looking, I’ll forget every reason I’m supposed to keep my distance.

And fuck, I need the distance.

Need the rules. The lines. The fucking boundaries we both pretend still exist.

Because I’m falling for her.

Not the easy kind of falling. Not the soft kind you can laugh off or shake free from.

The kind that happens despite you. The kind that wraps its hand around your heart and squeezes.

The harder I try not to, the harder I fall.

It’s in the way she listens. The way she sees through people without cutting them open. The way she holds all that grief and grace in the same goddamn breath and still manages to sit here, whole.

And it terrifies me.

Because I’d do anything to protect her.

Even if it means protecting her from me.