Page 28

SEBASTIAN

C oach's office has always felt too damn small.

Walls too close. Air too still. Like the room knows what’s coming.

I stand in the doorway, fists tight at my sides, jaw locked like that’s enough to keep everything from spilling out.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just finishes whatever he’s scribbling, then lifts his head, eyes flat, tone sharp. “What do you want, Wilde?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Got a minute?”

His eyes narrow a little. He jerks his chin toward the chair across from him. “Shut the door.”

I do. Then sit. Then regret sitting.

He leans back slowly, mouth tugging into a flat line. “This the part where I brace myself?”

I drag in a breath, feel it scrape down my throat.

Hoping to hell I’m doing the right thing.

“Something happened,” I say, voice low. “And I need to be reassigned. From Olivia Hart.”

Coach doesn’t blink. “You’re saying you don’t want to work with the team counselor?”

“I’m saying I can’t.”

A beat.

His gaze sharpens. “Explain.”

I brace my forearms on my knees, spine locked straight even though my gut’s folding in on itself.

“It’s not her. She’s—Christ, she’s more professional than anyone else on staff. Always has been.”

“And yet you’re in my office.”

I grit my jaw. “Because I’m the problem. I...messed up. Kissed her.”

That's all he needs to know.

Coach watches me for a moment. His stare doesn’t waver. “You saying there’s something going on between you two?”

I don’t answer right away.

My knee starts bouncing. I clamp it still.

“I’m saying…I care about her.”

There. Out loud. And it feels like pulling glass from my throat.

He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps staring like he’s waiting for more.

I add, “She never encouraged it. I crossed that line on my own. And I know what you’re thinking?—”

Coach cuts in, voice clipped. “You think this is noble? You fuck up, and now you’re the martyr?”

“No,” I snap. Then lower my voice. “This isn’t about being noble. This is about protecting her.”

He leans forward, elbows hitting the desk with a quiet thud. “If the league hears even a whisper of this—HR, media, ethics review. You’re a player. She’s in a position of authority. Could cost her her license. Could tank her whole career.”

“I know.”

I say it like it’s carved into bone.

Guilt presses in—low and heavy. Because he’s right. Because I knew what I was risking, and I did it anyway.

“There’s gotta be a way around it.”

Coach exhales through his nose—long and deliberate. Doesn’t say a word.

Just leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze pins me in place, steady and unreadable, like he’s flipping through a hundred possible outcomes in his head and none of them are clean.

The silence stretches.

A clock ticks on the wall behind him—slow, insistent.Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum hums, a door shuts, voices blur past and fade. Life moving on like nothing’s breaking in here. But it’s too quiet between us. Heavy with consequences neither of us wants to name.

He runs a thumb along the edge of his jaw, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s debating whether this is worth the fallout. Whether I am.

Like maybe this would be easier if he just let me burn.

Finally, he speaks—voice low, gruff.

“There is—maybe. But it means lines get drawn. Clear ones. And you don’t cross them. Ever.”

Relief flickers in my chest—sharp and short-lived. Not enough to ease the knot in my stomach, but just enough to breathe.

Because it means I haven’t lost her. Not yet.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not permission. But it’s something.

I nod. “Okay.”

“You want her to stay? Fine. She doesn’t work with you. Not directly. No one-on-ones. No treatment plans. No authority. You’re off her case, permanently.”

“I already told you—I’m recusing myself from her care.”

He gives a slow nod. “Then she stays. But this...whatever this is...stays buried. No drama. No distractions. And you both keep it out of the headlines. I don’t want to read about this on The Athletic.”

His voice hardens.

“And if she ever asks for space, or distance—you give it to her. Without hesitation.”

“I will,” I say. Even if it rips me apart.

“Good.” He sits back again, tension easing slightly from his shoulders. Then his eyes flicker with something new.

“But that doesn’t get you off the hook.”

I blink.

“You’re still on the mental health rotation,” he says. “League requires evaluations. Someone has to sign off on your fitness to play.”

“I’ll pay for my own therapist.”

Coach grunts. “Another conflict of interest. You think the league’s gonna let you cherry-pick someone? That’s a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, thinks for a second.

“I’ll contact the league wellness liaison. They’ll assign someone neutral. Out-of-market. No ties to the team. You’ll do virtual sessions. Every week. No exceptions.”

“Fine.”

“And you show up,” he adds. “Every damn time. I hear otherwise, you’re benched.”

“Understood.”

Doesn’t matter if I hate it. If it keeps her here, I’ll take every consequence he throws at me.

He lets that hang. Then grabs a flyer from the pile on his desk and tosses it across the table.

Break the Ice: Youth Mental Wellness Night

“Olivia’s helping organize it. Branson’s speaking. So’s Madden. Now you are too.”

I pick it up, scan the date.“You want me to talk?”

“I want you to show up,” Coach says. “Be honest. Be uncomfortable. Do the damn work.”

I hate this kind of shit. Suits and lights. Microphones. People staring, waiting for something raw or redemptive to fall out of my mouth. I’m not built for it. Never have been.

But if she’s behind it, then I’m in.

I fold the paper once. Then again. Slide it into my pocket.

My throat tightens, but I manage, “Thanks, Coach.”

He doesn’t look up. Just grunts.

I push up from the chair and move toward the door, chest tight, heart thudding like I just stepped off the ice in double overtime.

Before I reach it, his voice cuts through.

“One more thing—you’ll need to loop in HR.”

I pause. Nod once.

“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

Just before I step out, he says, “Don’t screw this up, Wilde.”

I don’t turn around. Just nod again.

But I hear what he’s really saying.

Don’t hurt her.

Don’t be the reason she has to walk away from the thing she loves.

And the words land like a punch I’ve been bracing for.

Because I already did screw it up. Every line I crossed. Every choice I made thinking I could keep this clean.

And now I’m trying to rebuild something from the wreckage.

I meant every word I wrote on that note.

She makes me want to be better.

I will be.

As long as I can keep my shit together—keep the worst parts of me from getting in the way—I’ve still got a shot.