Page 32

OLIVIA

T he training room hums with quiet motion.

Stretch bands snap. Cold packs hiss. A table creaks under shifting weight. Trainers move with practiced efficiency—muscle rub, evaluations, quiet checklists.

I stand near the back wall, clipboard to my chest, reviewing notes between casual check-ins. This isn’t therapy. Not officially. Just quick pulses—how’s the sleep, the stress, the shoulder. The guys are cooperative enough, but no one’s really in the mood to talk.

My focus flickers, immediate and sharp, the second I feel Sebastian nearby.

Shirtless, towel slung over his shoulders, joggers riding low on his hips. Skin flushed from the post-practice grind. Hair still damp from the shower like he didn’t bother drying it all the way.

My pulse kicks, uninvited. A slow, steady thrum low in my belly. I don’t let my gaze linger, but it doesn’t matter—my body already noticed.

We've managed to keep a professional distance, as per Coach’s instructions. No eye contact during team hours. No brushes of fingers when we pass in the hall. No lingering in shared spaces. It’s a careful act—one we’ve gotten better at in the past couple of weeks.

But outside the arena, it’s different.

Not easier. Just… ours.

I’ve spent a few nights at his place. He’s stayed at mine.

But I know he sleeps better in his own bed—king-sized, cool sheets, space to sprawl.

He’s never said it outright, but I can feel it in the way his body lets go when he’s home.

Like something inside him exhales. Like this is the only place he ever really learned to rest.

And still, when he pulls me close in the dark, one hand low on my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck, I sleep better than I have in years.

But here—this space—I tuck all of that away.

Instead, I move to Reilly, who’s got one leg stretched out on the taping table, scowling at his phone.

“How’s the ankle?” I ask.

“Feels like garbage fire. But manageable.”

“That’s the official term?”

He snorts. “Trainer said I could probably go full-contact again next week.”

“And how’s the headspace?”

Reilly’s mouth twists. “Better now that I’m back skating. I lose my mind when I’m benched too long.”

“I’ll mark that as progress. But keep checking in.”

I scribble a note on my clipboard and move on to Oliver who’s leaning against the far counter, sipping a protein shake. He’s got bags under his eyes and dried blood on his knuckle.

“Any sleep this week?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Couple hours here and there.”

“You still doing the screen shutdown two hours before bed?”

He gives me a sheepish smile. “...Technically.”

I level him with a look that’s more amusement than reprimand.

“I know,” he says quickly. “Just hard shutting my brain off.”

“I get that. Try journaling again. Even five minutes a night can help.”

He groans, all mock drama. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not the boss of me.”

I arch a brow. “Want me to call your mother?”

He grins, hands raising in surrender. “I take it back. You’re very much the boss of me.”

I chuckle and walk away.

Aleksander’s the last on my list. He’s always easy. Quiet but honest—one of the few who never postures.

“Still feeling the pressure?” I ask, stopping a few feet away as he leans into a slow quad stretch on the mat.

He nods once. “Scoring drought’s in my head.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

His smile is faint.

I offer him a grounding exercise—short, practical, nothing too clinical—and make a mental note to follow up later this week.

I’ve learned the guys rhythms. Their silences. The way they pull on a hoodie when they’re overstimulated or tape their sticks tighter when they’re anxious. It’s not about how much they talk—it’s about whether they keep showing up.

And they do.

Even when they roll their eyes. Even when the answers are clipped.

We’ve built something. Quiet. Earned. And despite my initial anger at Sebastian for going to Coach, I'm grateful I'm still here.

As if sensing me thinking about him, Sebastian walks past, that same quiet intensity stitched into every step. Our eyes catch for the briefest second. A small nod. Barely a beat.

“Check your text,” he murmurs, voice low and even, without stopping.

And just like that, he’s gone again.

But the echo of him stays.

I wait a beat before slipping my phone from my pocket.

You are so fucking beautiful.

Heat creeps up my neck, blooming across my cheeks. I glance around—no one’s looking—then type back quickly.

Not professional. I’m working.

The reply comes fast.

I know. And tonight, when I’ve got you under me, I’m going to make you forget every rule you’re trying to follow.

My breath catches in my throat, sharp and involuntary. I lock the screen like it might stop the flood inside me—heat, want, that dangerous pull towards him. I tuck the phone away and lift my gaze, intending to stay focused, keep moving.

But he’s looking.

From across the room, Sebastian meets my eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—unapologetic, boyish, a little too pleased with himself.

It should infuriate me. Should make me want to scold him, snap a reminder about boundaries and professionalism and how goddamn hard I’m trying to stay above all of this.

But I can’t even be mad at him.

Not when I see it—the lightness in his eyes. The kind that used to be so rare I wondered if I imagined it the first time. It’s there now. Clear. Real. Something open and soft beneath all that hard-earned edge.

I shake my head, try not to smile back. But inside, I’m already gone—melting under the weight of that one look, that one message, that one impossible, irreparable feeling that’s taken root inside me.

I turn away before I forget where I am.

But the smile lingers, no matter how hard I fight it.