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OLIVIA

T he conference room hums with poised urgency.

Volunteers in black dress shirts adjust centerpieces and align place cards with surgical precision.

A string quartet tunes softly in the corner, their notes threading through the quiet tension.

Across the room, someone’s directing a photographer near the step-and-repeat banner, while I’m smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the edge of the silent auction table—for the fourth time.

It’s stupid. No one’s going to notice. But I need to do something with my hands.

My stomach’s a knot I can’t loosen. It’s not the event. It’s not the guest list or the logistics or whether the centerpieces are balanced.

It’s Sebastian.

He’s in the building. Somewhere.

And I haven’t seen him yet.

On the surface, nothing’s changed.

But I read people for a living. And I know when someone’s not okay.

There’s a weight behind his eyes. A tension in his jaw that doesn’t ease, even when he’s with me. He still falls asleep beside me like it’s the only place he wants to be.He still kisses me like he’s starving. Like he doesn’t know how not to.

But his quiet has changed.

And lately, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s drifting—even when he’s holding me.

And the worst part? I don’t know if it’s about me. Or hockey. Or the weight of whatever he’s carrying.

All I know is—he won’t let me close enough to find out.

I swipe my palms down the sides of my dress and check the mirror near the coat rack. I went with a deep navy wrap dress, subtle makeup, hair pulled back at the nape of my neck. It’s polished. Professional.

And a little bit for him.

Even if I won’t say it out loud.

The room starts to fill. I greet donors, thank volunteers, exchange polite smiles. People are happy. Engaged. Focused on the cause.

I’m doing what I came here to do.

But when I see him across the room—black fitted suit, crisp white shirt, no tie—something inside me knocks loose.

He’s talking to Coach. Calm. Stoic. Like he’s mastered the art of being present without being available. Like the things we whispered in the dark and held onto with desperate hands never happened.

Except I know they did.

I feel them in the way my breath catches when his gaze lifts and finds mine.

For a second, we just stare.

Then he starts walking toward me.

I brace myself.

"You look incredible," he says, low enough that no one else hears.

"Thanks. You clean up well."

A beat passes. The air between us heavy.

"You nervous?" I ask.

"A little. Fucking hate microphones."

"You’ll do great," I say softly.

He studies my face like he’s searching for something. A hint. A clue. Proof I’m still in this.

And I am. God, I am.

I just want More.

Not more time. Not more sex or sleepovers or soft mornings with coffee.

I want him. All of him.

The parts he hides behind quiet. The weight he carries in his shoulders. The thoughts that make him clench his jaw when he thinks I'm not looking. The nightmares that leave him restless and muttering my name like an apology.

I want the things he doesn’t say out loud. The fears. The memories. The wreckage.

I want the truth—not because I need to fix it, but because I want to hold it with him. Because whatever this is between us, it’s real enough to ache. Real enough that I’m scared of how much I’ll miss him if he keeps slipping further away.

Coach steps up to the mic. The low hum of conversation softens, then stills.

He starts with a few words about the foundation—community, healing, outreach.

Around me, people begin to take their seats. Chairs scrape gently against the floor. Laughter fades into polite quiet. Wine glasses are refilled. Phones are tucked away.

Beside me, Sebastian shifts too. Straightens his jacket. Shoulders squared, jaw tight like it always is when he’s about to step into something uncomfortable.

I glance up at him. My voice stays low. Steady.

“You should take your seat.”

His eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us moves.

“I’ve got a few last things to check before the auction opens,” I add, even though there’s nothing left to do but pretend.

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t touch me.

But he lingers, just for a moment, like there’s something he wants to say and doesn’t know how.

And then he walks towards his assigned table.

I stay near the back, clipboard in hand, nodding along as the first speaker takes the stage. A board member, then a parent whose kid went through the program. Their stories are honest. Polished, but real.

Applause rises and falls in waves. Wine is poured. Plates are cleared. The room grows warmer as the evening wears on.

But I barely hear any of it.

I keep catching glimpses of Sebastian—spine straight, mouth set in that unreadable line. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t smile.

Just waits.

Coach steps back up to the mic, and the room stills again as his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Our next speaker is someone you all know. One of the top defensemen in the league. A player who brings grit, leadership, and heart to the ice every single night. He’s not just an anchor for our team—he’s part of its backbone.

And tonight, he’s stepping off the ice to share something that matters just as much. ”

A pause. Just long enough to let the weight of it land.

“Please welcome—Sebastian Wilde.”

Sebastian’s name echoes through the room.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just straightens his spine and steps onto the stage.

No papers. No speech cards. Just him—tall, steady, dressed for the part but looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.

His eyes scan the room.

Then find me.

He doesn't look away.

He leans into the mic, clears his throat once.

Voice low. Steady. A little rough around the edges.

“I’m not great at this part.”

A few soft chuckles ripple through the crowd. He lets them. Doesn’t smile.

“Standing up here. Talking. Sharing anything that isn’t stats or tape.”His fingers brush the edge of the podium like he’s grounding himself.

“But I said yes because this matters.”

A pause. His jaw flexes.

“Growing up, hockey was the thing that got me through.”

He glances down, then back up—eyes catching mine again. Holding.

“And not just the usual stuff—school, pressure, bad days. I’m talking about the kind of dark that doesn’t back off. The kind you don’t know how to name when you’re a kid, because no one around you does either.”

The room has gone still.

“Hockey gave me structure. Purpose. A place to go when my head wasn’t right. It gave me coaches who noticed when I wasn’t okay—even if they didn’t always know what to do about it. It gave me teammates. Ice. Discipline. Noise. Something to pour it all into.”

He shifts his weight slightly, then exhales.

"I’m supposed to be good with words. I’m not. Watch any post-game interview and you’ll get the picture."

A small ripple of laughter.

“But I know what it’s like to be a kid who doesn’t have the tools. Who thinks he has to tough it out. Who’s told to ‘man up’ when what he needs is someone to notice he’s slipping.”

He swallows.

“Mental health isn’t weakness. It’s human. And every kid—every player, every person—deserves support. Deserves to feel seen. Deserves a place to land when it gets too heavy to carry alone.”

His voice cracks just slightly at the edge.

“That’s what this program does. It catches people before they fall too far. Gives them space to talk. To heal. To figure things out.I wish I’d had something like it when I was younger.”

He exhales slowly. Fingers tap once against the side of the podium—subtle, almost like he's trying to shake the emotion off. He glances down, then back up, eyes sweeping the room.

A pause. Just long enough to let it land.

“So if you believe in this—if you believe kids deserve better—open your wallets.”

His mouth quirks, just barely.

“And make it hurt a little. Means you’re doing it right.”

Laughter breaks the tension—gruff, genuine.

Then he nods, a single small motion, and steps away from the mic.

Applause crashes around him.

But he doesn’t look at anyone else when he walks off that stage.

Just me.

And God help me, I fall a little harder.