Page 29 of Second Sin

He's all heat and quiet strength, and the nearness of him makes the hairs on the back of my neck lift. He tilts his head slightly, assessing, and for the briefest moment, his eyes flick to my lips before meeting my gaze again—so quick I can almost convince myself I imagined it.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I push back a stray strand of hair and give a wry smile. “My pride’s more bruised than anything else.”

He grunts. “You fall like that often?”

I crack a smile. “Only when I have an audience.”

That gets the barest twitch of his lips—barely—but it’s there.

Then his gaze drops. Jaw tightens. Shoulders lock. The heat fades—but not the weight. That stays, settling in my chest like a storm that hasn't hit yet.

“Rough day?” I ask, filling the silence before it swallows us whole.

There’s a pause, one heartbeat longer than comfortable.“Just... loud in my head tonight.”

That vulnerability is rare from him. A crack in the armor.

“I get that.” I shift to sit on the edge of a lifting bench and rub my ankle. He doesn’t move at first, then slides in beside me, our arms brushing. He smells like salt and sweat and something distinctly male—grounding and dangerous.

I keep my eyes forward, pretending not to notice the way my pulse trips. His thigh nudges mine again, and this time I swear he does it on purpose. My skin tingles where his touches mine, and my body betrays me—leaning a little too close, breathing a little too deep.

It’s dangerous, how easy it is to sit here. To let his body lean into mine like we’re something more than therapist and client. Like I’m not already standing on the edge of an ethical cliff.

"You run?" I ask, trying to regain my composure.

"Yeah." Short. Gruff.

“I started running to help clear my head. Used to be a sort of addiction. Wish I hadn't stopped for so long.”

He doesn't answer right away, just studies me with that unreadable expression.

“Why did you?” he asks. "Stop."

“Life.”

He grunts a small agreement. “Not sure what I’d do if I didn’t have hockey.”

“How’d you get into it?”

“I’m Canadian,” he says, a rare grin tugging at his lips, a look of nostalgia crossing his gaze briefly. “It’s in my blood.”

“I forgot that. I mean—I read it in your file,” I say too quickly, then clear my throat. “I skimmed everyone’s before I started.”

He stretches out a leg, his thigh brushing against mine again, this time staying there. Neither of us moves away.

“So you’re born with skates on up there?” I tease, deflecting the heat curling low in my belly.

"Pretty much." He shrugs. "I had a stick in my hand and skates on my feet as soon as I could walk."

“So your parents were all-in from the start?”

"Mostly my dad. He coached me until I was ten. After that he never missed a practice or a game.”

“He must be proud of you.”

“He died a year before I was drafted. Pancreatic cancer. Fast and brutal.”He leans back slightly, as if the confession costs him something.

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