Page 2

SEBASTIAN

S he smells like something soft.

Not perfume. Just clean skin. Maybe soap that doesn’t try too hard. It shouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t register.

But it does.

I walk away too fast.

Not because I’m rude, and not because I care what she thinks—but because I felt it. That second where our eyes caught and something punched low in my chest.

I saw the ring. Left hand. Simple band.

Off-limits.

But hell—one look at her and I felt it. Like a match dragging across my ribs. Fast. Hot. Immediate. And completely unwelcome.

You'd think my dick would have learned its lesson by now. But some instincts don’t give a damn about regret. Or guilt. Or the fact that she’s married and I’ve already burned down one life chasing the wrong kind of want.

I drag a hand through my hair, jaw still tight as I step into the elevator. The doors close, and I exhale slow, low.

Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve let myself sink into something raw and physical instead of grinding it out on the ice or in my own damn head. Urges aren’t the problem—I’ve got those under control.

Most days.

Not today.

Because shit, when a woman like Olivia walks into a locker room buzzing with testosterone and adrenaline, what the hell do you expect? Thick chestnut hair that’d feel like silk between your fingers. Eyes like polished whiskey—steady, dark, impossible to ignore. A mouth made for sin.

She’s sexy in a way that doesn’t try. Calm in a way that makes you wonder what she sounds like when she comes—quiet at first, then unraveling all that control in a gasp she can’t hold back.

A low grumble vibrates in my throat.

I don’t want to think about it. But now I fucking can’t stop.

She's fucking married.

And I'm an asshole still doing penance for the last time I let want win.

Now I’ve got to sit with her. Every damn week. For hours. While she picks at my head, tries to crack me open, asks questions I’ve spent years refusing to answer.

A fucking counselor.

What does Coach care if I’m dragging around a few ghosts? I show up. I hit. I win. Whatever’s rotting underneath—I keep it buried.

I rub a hand over my jaw as I step off the elevator and head for the locker room, still feeling the heat of her too close. The weight of everything this season’s already turning into.

I tell myself it’s just the season pressure. Just another game week. But it’s not. I know it’s not.

Kane’s coming down the hallway, gear bag slung over his shoulder, fresh from media.

“Reporters hounding you again?” I ask, mostly out of habit.

He smirks. “Always. But apparently being happy and not a total asshole makes for boring headlines.”

I grunt. “You should try being miserable and emotionally unavailable.”

Kane laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “How’s that working out?”

“Exactly how it sounds.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “You know, not everyone ends up broken, Wilde.”

“Good for them.”

He doesn’t push. Just keeps walking.

And I don’t say what’s clawing up my throat—that I’m happy for him.

I see the way he looks when he talks about his kids. Like it changed him. Like it mattered. Good for him. But that’s not my story.

That fairy tale bullshit? It’s not in the cards for me. Never was.

Never will be.

Hockey is my life. The ice, the routine, the violence. The odd fling here and there, just enough to remind myself I’m still human.

But love? A sound of disgust scrapes low in my throat, bitter and involuntary. It tastes like copper and regret.

That part of me—the one that thought it was possible—is long dead and buried.

Fingers curl into fists, and pain flares sharp and immediate. The soreness from drills lingers, one knuckle split under the tape—small reminder of how far I’m willing to push until something breaks.

I should be heading to post-practice recovery. Ice, stretches, protein. Instead, I’m walking the halls like I’m trying to burn off something I can’t name. Not nerves. Not rage. Just this low, constant pressure under my skin that won’t go away.

I reach the locker room again. The usual noise hits like a wave—Ryder chirping Blake, someone blasting post-practice playlists.

“Yo, did you catch the new counselor?” one of the rookies—Tyler Slade, of course—calls out, already in street clothes, sprawled on the bench like he owns the place, stretching his arms behind his head. “Absolute ten. I’m about to fake a mental crisis just to get some extra one-on-one time.”

He grins like he’s already undressing her with his eyes. My jaw tightens.

“Keep your dick in your pants, Slade,” I say, voice flat but sharp enough to draw a glance.

Blake looks over, just once, like he’s clocking me. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. Just watches me with that quiet stillness that says he knows exactly how close I am to snapping.

Which, lately, is damn near all the time.

Slade just laughs, not taking it seriously. “What? Just saying. “She’s got that whole uptight-but-secretly-a-freak vibe going on.”

I don’t respond. Just slam my locker shut harder than necessary.

Fucking rookies.

And damn Coach for thinking hiring someone that looks like Olivia Hart was a good idea.

“Hey Wilde,” Slade says, grinning, arms crossed and ego loud. “Coach send you ‘cause you’re the closest to a breakdown, or what?”

My jaw tightens. The locker room doesn’t go silent, but it shifts.

Conversations quiet. Heads turn.

Blake looks up, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Kid’s all mouth. Don’t let him get in your head.”

I don’t answer. Just grab my bag off the bench, sling it over my shoulder, and walk out.

Not fast. Not loud. Just gone.

Because it’s not Slade that’s in my head.

It’s her.

But whatever the fuck I felt when our eyes locked—it dies here.

Because Olivia Hart doesn’t need to know who I am.And she sure as hell doesn’t need to know what I’ve done.