Page 52 of Second Sin

The second my skates hit the ice, everything else disappears. The noise. The pressure. The city that hates us just enough to make me want this more.

We've been on a streak—tight plays, clean wins. Tonight’s no different. I skate like I’ve got something to prove, but I keep it disciplined. No penalties. No flare. Just hard, fast, efficient hockey.

Slade scores midway through the third—top shelf, stick-side. Kid’s got skill. The bench erupts. Even Coach cracks half a grin.

We hold the lead till the final buzzer. I come off the ice breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes, but my head’s clearer than it’s been in days. Not because we won. Not because I played clean. But because I knew she was here.

Olivia's somewhere in the arena. Probably the media box or the scouting level, wherever Coach thought she’d be most out of the way.

She doesn’t usually travel for away games. Hell, most teams don’t even send their mental health staff on the road. But this time’s different.

Last week, our second-string goalie, Calle Johansson, lost his wife and five-year-old daughter in a car accident—hit head-on by a drunk driver on their way home from a team event.

Whole fucking team’s still reeling.

Guys are trying to hold it together, but it’s rough. Quiet locker room. Short fuses. Eyes red when they think no one’s looking.

Coach asked Olivia to come on the road. Said if there was ever a time the guys needed her, it’s now. He’s not wrong.

Truth is?—

It gutted all of us.

Even me.

And I don’t say that lightly.

I’ve seen some shit. Been through enough to build walls a mile high. But there’s something about seeing a man fold in half in a hallway with his fists in his hair and a daughter’s crayon drawing still in his locker…

Yeah. That stays with you.

So no, I’m not surprised Coach wanted Olivia here.

And I’d be lying if I said part of me isn’t selfishly glad. Because even if she’s not here for me—just knowing she’s in the building… it fucks with my head in a way that makes me feel almost sane again.

Almost.

She’s been distant since the bar—no lingering looks, no conversations beyond the professional. It’s smart. Necessary. And still, it guts me.

In the locker room, Kane and Blake are talking quietly.

"Heard anything from Calle?" Blake asks, pulling tape off his wrists.

Kane shakes his head, his expression grim. "Not really. Just that the funeral was private. Fucking brutal."

"How do you even come back from that?" Blake murmurs.

Silence stretches. Even Slade keeps quiet.

Love’s fucking dangerous. Fragile. Doesn’t matter how tight you hold it—life can rip it away just the same.

After the postgame shower, I try to sleep.

Hotel sheets. Too white. Too stiff. The pillows don’t hold shape, and the HVAC unit clicks every few minutes like it’s got a goddamn grudge.

Too much silence.

Not the good kind. Not the rare, clean kind that settles in your chest and lets you breathe. This is the kind that crawls under your skin and starts gnawing.

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