Page 3
OLIVIA
T hree weeks in, and I'm convinced the entire building reeks like testosterone, sweat, and something synthetic that smells like ego in aerosol form.It clings to the walls, seeps into the air.I’ve worked in fire halls and army barracks, places steeped in adrenaline and grief—but this?
This hums with a different kind of weight. Pressure. Expectation. Money.
I adjust my hold on the clipboard, as if shifting my grip might settle the tension climbing up my spine.
Most of the guys who were supposed to be here showed. Half-slouched, arms crossed, legs spread wide like they’re daring me to try something clinical. One yawns wide without bothering to cover it. Another spins a ring on his thumb like it might keep him from bolting.
But they’re here. That’s something.
Sebastian Wilde is not.
"Has anyone seen Sebastian?" I ask.
“Good luck with that,” Harper says from behind me. I didn’t hear her come in, but she rarely makes noise unless she wants to. Harper Singh is the team’s physician—brilliant, blunt, and the closest thing I have to a friend here.
She’s in scrubs, coffee in hand, eyeing the muffins I set out like that’s the real reason she showed up.“He doesn’t do groups. Barely does people.”
“So I’ve heard," I say on a sigh.
She leans close, voice low. “Honestly? Probably better for the vibe that he’s not here.”
I offer a tight smile. “He doesn’t intimidate me.”
“No,” she agrees. “But he’ll test you anyway.”
He already is. Not with words, not even with defiance. Just by existing in every space like nothing and no one can touch him. And damn it, I want to know why that gets to me.
The session goes fine—low engagement but no resistance. I take notes, keep my tone soft, and only ask open-ended questions. A couple of the younger guys talk. One mentions his dad’s heart attack last season. Another shares about post-game anxiety. Nothing deep.
But it’s a start.
Kind of.
Ryder Knox keeps cracking his knuckles like the silence pisses him off.
Tyler Slade barely looks up from his phone.
Blake Starowics doesn’t say a word, but his expression is watchful—like he’s reading the room, not me. Steady, respectful. Protective in a way that doesn’t need to be loud.
The second the hour’s up, most of them are already on their feet—like the clock gave them permission to breathe again. Ryder’s out the door first. Slade trails after him without a word.
Only Blake lingers.
He stops at the door, glances over his shoulder. “You’re good at this, you know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “At group therapy with emotionally constipated athletes?”
Not my finest display of restraint—but it’s honest, and it’s already out.
At least he laughs, and adds, “Exactly that.” Then his tone shifts, softer. “They need you. Even if they don’t get it yet.”
Then he’s gone too.
His words stay behind, though—settling somewhere beneath my ribs.
He's right.
Men like them don’t ask for help. Most don’t even slow down long enough to realize they need it. But pressure builds. Always does. And eventually, something cracks.
My job is to catch it before it does. On the ice—or off.
I swing by my office, file notes, and check Sebastian’s schedule. Weight training now. He’s supposed to come in after. I already know he won’t.
Part of me’s relieved. The other part…aches a little.
I shouldn’t be this drawn to a man I barely know. But every time his name shows up on the schedule, something in me stirs. Want. Curiosity. That low hum of awareness I can’t seem to shake.
Even when I know he’s not coming.
But avoiding the work doesn’t make the need for it disappear.
If he won’t come to his sessions…I’ll just have to bring the session to him.
I find him in the gym, alone. Tank top. Bruised knuckles. Music low and aggressive, pulsing from a speaker in the corner.
He’s at the free weights, muscles taut with every controlled movement. Chest rising, jaw tight, focus locked like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
His skin glistens with sweat, catching the overhead lights with every flex and lift.I try not to watch the way his biceps bunch, how his back shifts beneath the cling of damp fabric. The veins in his forearms, the steady rhythm of his breath.
Pull it together. He’s just a man. A very sweaty, unfairly hot man—but still.
Lust isn't something I'm used to.Even with Ethan, it was slow. Gentle. Friendship first, comfort next. Attraction came later—safe, steady, earned.
This isn’t that.
This is heat and edge and a dangerous kind of pull I don’t know what to do with.
"You going to just stand there staring?" His voice cuts through the music—low, rough, and edged with something that sounds a hell of a lot like irritation.
I catch his gaze in the mirror.
Shit.
I clear my throat, straighten my spine—pretend he didn’t just catch me checking him out. “Blowing off group to squeeze in a workout?"
He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to lift.”
“You don’t. But you do need to show up.”
He grabs a towel and wipes his face, then tosses it aside. “I don’t talk in circles.”
I step closer. “This isn’t about talking. It’s about presence. Support. Not just for you.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m not anyone’s support system.”
I hold his stare. “No, but you’re part of a team. Even you don’t get to opt out of that.”
Silence stretches. God, I hate how aware I am of him.
“I’m not your project,” he says gruffly.
His eyes flick to my hand. I didn’t realize I was fiddling with my ring.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just picks up the bar again.
I stay where I am. “I have to submit a report, Sebastian.”
That gets a grunt. Nothing more.
“It includes participation. Progress. Miss enough sessions, and it could affect your playing time.”
He sets the bar down harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the empty gym. “You think I give a shit?”
“I think you do,” I say quietly. “Even if you’re trying hard not to.”
He turns away, running a hand through his damp hair.
“I’ve watched the games,” I add. “The penalties. The fights. Even the way you skate—you’re hurting, and it’s leaking out in every shift, every hit, every time you throw your gloves down like it’s the only way to breathe.”
That gets his attention. His head turns, sharp. “Stick to psychoanalyzing people, Doc. Don’t try to dissect a sport you clearly don’t understand.”
“I don’t need to understand hockey,” I say. “I understand people. And anger. And what happens when it festers.”
He steps closer, eyes hard. “I’m not angry.”
I hold still. “Then what are you?”
His mouth opens—but nothing comes out. He swears under his breath, turning away like the weight of the question’s too much.
And in that crack—just for a second—I see it.
Not defiance.
Not arrogance.
But guilt. Shame.
A man who’s been carrying too much for too long, hiding the wreckage behind sharp edges and silence.
I turn toward the door, pulse still a little unsteady, but voice calm as I throw one last line over my shoulder.“I’ll see you at your next session, Wilde. Don’t make me come find you again.”
A grunt follows me out. Low. Dismissive. But not angry this time.
Almost...resigned.
I don’t look back.
But I feel him watching me go.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3 (Reading here)
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46