Page 1 of Second Sin

CHAPTER 1

OLIVIA

People don’t unravel all at once.

It happens slowly. In quiet ways. In missed calls and forced smiles, in sleepless nights and shoulders that never fully relax.

If you look close enough. Listen. Pay attention. It's easy to read the tiny tells. A twitch of the jaw. A shift in posture. The way someone grips a coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping them grounded.

I’m good at seeing it. At untangling it.

At helping people put themselves back together—even when I haven’t quite figured out how to do the same.

That’s what makes me good at my job.

Not the certifications or degrees or polished professionalism.

It’s the broken parts I’ve learned to keep quiet. I don’t just understand pain. I’ve lived in it long enough to call it home.

I walk through the side entrance of the Annihilators’ Arena, the hush of the hallway swallowing the sound of the door closing behind me. The security guard barely glances up when I give my name. Clipboard check. Radio click. A pause, then a nod toward the door behind him, brief directions murmured without making eye contact.

I adjust the strap of my leather tote and keep moving.

It’s all muscle memory by now—showing up, staying calm, blending in until they stop seeing you as a threat and start seeing you as help.

But even before I meet a single player, this place feels different.

Heavier somehow. Pressure poured into the concrete. Sealed into every inch of this place.

Maybe it’s just the nerves.

Or maybe it’s instinct. The kind that warns you when something’s going to pull you in deeper than it should.

A door up ahead swings open, and a man steps into the hallway. Broad shoulders. Silver hair. Sharp, watchful eyes that flick straight to me.

I recognize him immediately.

“Coach Jacobs,” I say, offering my hand as he approaches. “Olivia Hart. It’s good to meet you.”

“Appreciate you coming on board,” he says, giving a quick handshake before motioning for me to follow. “League’s been riding our asses about wellness compliance. Truth is, we should’ve had someone like you years ago.”

I nod, falling in step beside him, already sensing the fractures buried beneath the team's polished image.

“You won’t win everyone over away.” His stride doesn’t slow, but there’s a stiffness to the way he moves, like the words are welded to something heavier. “I’ve got guys who’ve taken more hits off the ice than on. They don’t talk about it—but it shows."

“I know mandatory counseling can put people on edge.” I match his pace, keeping my tone even. “Earning trust takes time.”

He gestures as we walk—therapy room upstairs, player lounge to the left, medical through the next hall—a verbal tour as we move deeper into the facility.

We stop in front of a wide, steel-gray door, the team’s logo stenciled near the top. When Coach opens it, I hear music, laughter, the metallic clatter of sticks.

“You’ll do fine,” he says. But something about the way he says it makes it feel less like reassurance and more like warning. Like he’s seen enough to know it won’t be easy—and he’s trusting me to do it anyway.

Then he keeps walking, and I follow him straight into the chaos of post-practice.

There’s a buzz of movement—tape ripping, gear thudding against benches, voices scattered beneath the steady pulse of bass. The air is laced with exhaustion, sarcasm, and the edge of adrenaline still bleeding off the ice.

A few players glance over. One of them whistles, low and careless.

---