Page 29

OLIVIA

M aybe it’s cowardly to hand over a letter instead of saying the words out loud.

But I’ve always been better on paper. Cleaner. More in control. Less likely to break.

The envelope in my hand is smooth, heavy-stock paper. No name on the front. Just the weight of every boundary I shattered trying to convince myself I hadn’t.

I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.

That walking away before either of us gets hurt is the responsible choice.

That maybe, if I let go fast enough, it won’t feel like losing something I was never allowed to want.

I reach Coach’s office before I’m ready.

Knock twice.

“It’s open,” comes his voice, low and clipped.

I step inside, spine straight. Knuckles white around the letter.

He looks up from his desk, eyes narrowing on me with that same unflinching read-everything stare he gives during losses. The kind that doesn’t miss a damn thing.

“You here to quit?”

The words land like a slap.

“I—”

He nods at the envelope in my hand. “That your resignation?”

I hesitate. Then nod. “Yes.”

“It’s not happening.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not resigning,” he says, like it’s already done. “Wilde beat you to it.”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“He came in this morning. Told me everything.”

“Everything,” I echo, throat dry.

“Said he crossed a line. Took responsibility. Asked to be pulled from your care permanently.”

I don’t sit. I just stand there, pulse roaring in my ears, body buzzing with heat I don’t know what to do with.

“He had no right,” I say.

Coach raises a brow. “Didn’t speak for you. Just owned his part.”

“He shouldn’t have gone to you first.” My voice shakes now, even though I hate that it does.

“He went to HR too. Put it in writing. This way, you don’t have to walk.”

I sink into the chair across from him, the letter limp in my lap.

I should feel relieved.

But I don’t.

I feel undermined. Blindsided. Controlled.

Like he beat me to the fallout so I wouldn’t get a say in it.

“He’s off your rotation,” Coach says. “No sessions. No contact in that capacity. You stay on—if you want the job, it’s still yours.”

I nod. Slowly. “Understood.”

He watches me for a moment longer. Then says, quieter, “He wasn’t trying to screw you over, Hart. Just trying to fix what he broke.”

I press my lips together.

Fixing it would’ve meant not breaking it in the first place.

But even as the thought forms, I know it’s not fair.

He may have made the first move—but I didn’t stop it.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t stop myself.

And everything after that…I was in it. All the way in.

With hands, with heart, with every shaky excuse I told myself about ethics and timing and lines that were already too blurred to redraw.

I stand.

“Thanks, Coach.”

I head for the door. I’m almost out when I pause.

The envelope is still in my hand.

I glance at it once, then drop it in the trash on the way out.