Page 4

SEBASTIAN

“ H eard you skipped group yesterday. Again,” Kane says, not bothering to look up from where he’s icing his knee.

“Maybe I just don’t feel like group hugs and breathing exercises,” I mutter, shoving my water bottle in my locker.

Truth is, the idea of sitting in a circle and pretending I’ve got something to share makes my skin crawl. There’s a reason I keep to myself. A reason I keep my past where it belongs—locked down and out of reach.

Blake snorts, nodding at my swollen, bruised knuckles.“You’d rather drop gloves with the other team than deal with your own shit.”

I flex my hand, the ache flaring up my wrist, then glare at him. “Better than taking it out on someone in the locker room.”

Kane lifts a dark brow at me and shakes his head.“Coach isn’t gonna keep looking the other way if you keep skipping."

“I was doing something more useful with my time.”

Blake leans back against the bench, stretching out his legs as he tosses his tape in the bin.“Heard Olivia caught you hiding in the gym. Sounds like she wasn’t too impressed.”

My jaw clenches. “She say that?”

Blake shrugs as he tightens the strap on his gear bag.“If you actually attended any of your sessions, you’d realize she’s good at her job.”

I grab my bag and head for the door. “I don’t need fucking therapy.”

“Could’ve fooled us,” Kane mutters, loud enough to hear.

I don’t respond. Just tighten my grip on the bag and head out like I didn’t hear a damn thing.

They don’t get it. Can’t.

This isn’t about talking.

It’s about not unraveling.

But hell, if the woman isn't persistent.

I got her email last night, followed by a text, just in case I missed it.

Hey, rescheduling your missed session. Tomorrow, 2:30 PM. Don’t skip this one.

No lecture. No guilt trip. Just a quiet line in the sand.

Coach backed it up—pulled me aside before practice, told me if I blow this one off, I sit. Doesn’t matter how hard I train or how well I play.

So yeah—I’ll be there.

Not because I’m ready.

Because I don’t have a choice.

I make my way through the hall, slow and deliberate, like I’m not two seconds from turning back around.

Like I’m not already rehearsing excuses to ditch this and lose myself in the weight room instead.

I tell myself it’s just another box to tick.

Another way to keep Coach off my back. But there’s a weight in my chest that hasn’t let up since she looked at me in the gym like she saw too much.

I show up late. On purpose. Just enough to make it clear I don’t want to be here, but not enough to give Coach a reason to bench me.

She’s sitting behind the desk, typing something. Her hair’s pulled back today. No smile. No small talk.

“Wilde,” she says without looking up.

I grunt in response and sink into the chair across from her.

I keep my gaze low, somewhere near her desk, pretending not to see the curve of her upper lip or the quiet focus she wears when she types.

She doesn’t look up right away, and I’m grateful—because for some reason, meeting her gaze feels like handing over something I’m not ready to give.

A minute ticks by. Then another.

The silence scrapes at my nerves. I rub my knuckles—bruised, swollen, throbbing like they remember the hit I didn’t pull back on. It’s not just the pain. It’s what’s behind it. Restlessness. Frustration. Like I’m being cornered and asked to feel things I’ve spent years burying.

“You hurt your hand,” she says finally, nodding to the bruising.

I flex my fingers. “Nothing serious.”

“Let me see.”

I hesitate, but she’s already standing. She comes around her desk, eyes focused, calm but direct. When I finally hold out my hand, she doesn’t flinch at the grotesque mess I made of it.

She studies it, then moves to a small fridge tucked into the corner of the room. A second later, she returns with an ice pack, handing it too me.

I catch the faintest whiff of her scent—vanilla, clean skin, something subtly floral. It hits hard. Too hard. My gaze flicks down, catches on the freckles scattered across her forearms, the delicate lines of her wrist. Details I shouldn’t notice.

I grunt, "Thanks."

She doesn’t say anything—just steps away, back toward her desk.

I don’t mean to look.

But I do.

The sway of her hips. The way her skirt clings just enough. Controlled. Composed. Like the rest of her.

Even her walk is quiet confidence. No rush, no extra effort. Just natural. Unbothered.

I drag my gaze away, jaw tight.

“So,” she says, calm and steady, like always, “are you this talkative with everyone, or am I just lucky?”

The corner of my mouth twitches, almost a smile, and I hate how easy it is for her to disarm me. “Depends who’s asking.”

She exhales a quiet laugh and eases back in her chair watching me. “You don’t have to talk, Sebastian. But if you do, you might find out that you don’t have to keep hurting to feel something, either.”

It’s not what she says. It’s how she says it. Steady. No pity. Just… calm. Like if I let the dam break, she’d hold the pieces without flinching. And that terrifies me more than anything.

I stare at the floor. “You think you’ve got me figured out already?”

“No,” she says. “But I think you’re tired. And angry. And probably lonelier than you let on.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t want her to be right.

“I don’t need pity,” I mutter.

“It’s not pity,” she says. “It’s awareness.”

For some stupid reason, that stings more.

She doesn’t ask what broke me. Doesn’t need to. And maybe that’s why I think about her— Elise —for the first time in months.

“I used to be better at this,” I say before I can stop myself. “Shutting shit down. Locking it out.”

My leg bounces. The pressure in my chest keeps climbing.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t push. Just lets me fill the silence.

““Lately it’s just...showing up where it shouldn't..." I drag a hand through my hair. "Fuck. Forget it.”

I push to my feet too fast, the chair dragging loud and sharp against the floor like it’s calling me out. I take long, desperate strides to the exit, and she follows, stepping toward the door just as I do.

We both freeze.

"Your session isn't over." Her voice is soft—steady on the surface, but there’s a thread of tension beneath it.

Her gaze finds mine, and for a second, the room narrows to nothing but the space between us.She’s beautiful in that quiet, unshakable way—like she doesn’t know it, or maybe just doesn’t care.And those fucking eyes. Soft golden brown, drawing me in before I can stop it.

I’m too close—close enough to see the way her breath hitches, to watch her pupils dilate.Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to light something dangerous in my chest.

She shifts back—just an inch. Straightens her shoulders, like she’s forcing herself to be the professional in the room again. Her expression goes blank, but not before I catch the flicker of something that says she felt it too.

"We still have twenty minutes left," she says, voice calm, but the flush in her cheeks betraying her.

I pull back, jaw tight. “Yeah…I’m good on the soul-searching for one day.”

And I walk out before I do something reckless.

Down the hallway, my pulse is still kicking like I just took a hit on open ice.

One more second and I would’ve made it worse.

Got too close. Said too much.

So yeah. I walk. Fast.