Page 2 of Second Sin

“Don’t even think about it,” comes a voice from the back.

I don’t know who said it.

But then I see him.

Sitting on one of the benches, half in shadow, a towel slung over his broad shoulder. Still. Unbothered. The kind of presence people notice without knowing why.

Sebastian Wilde.

I know his face and name from his file. The highlight reels. The injury reports that read more like a combat log.

Defenseman. Thirty. Physical. Disciplined. Press-shy to the point of hostility.

He doesn’t speak often on camera. But when he does, there’s something clipped and quiet in it—controlled, like everything is weighed before it’s allowed out.

His eyes pass over me once. Slate gray. Sharp. Unreadable. Not a flicker of interest—just a quick assessment, like I’m another box to check before moving on.

I glance around, taking in body language. A few players are guarded. Some too curious. One already sizing me up. I know that look. I’ve worked with soldiers, cops, fire crews. The kind of men who confuse silence for strength and therapy for weakness.

I’ll have my hands full here.

“Hey,” says a voice beside me. I turn.

Blake Starowics. Goalie. Clean-cut, calm presence. Familiar from the files and the press.

“You must be the new shrink,” he says.

“Counselor,” I clarify with a quick smile.

He grins, easy and crooked. “Well,counselor—welcome to the chaos.”

Before I can respond, Coach clears his throat.

“Alright, listen up,” he says. “This is Olivia Hart. She’s your new mental health consultant. She’s certified in trauma therapy, grief counseling, performance psych. Worked with first responders, military vets, and now—lucky her—she gets to deal with all of you.”

A low chuckle rolls through the group.

Coach doesn’t smile. “She’s here to keep you sharp—off the ice as much as on it. Her door’s open. When she’s available, you will be too. That’s not a suggestion. That’s league policy. And more than that—it’s common damn sense.”

He pauses, his stare going pointed.

“Give her the respect you’d give anyone else on staff. Probably more. She’s got the patience to deal with the lot of you.”

Some nods. One smirk I ignore.

Coach gestures toward the door. “Wilde—show her to her space upstairs.”

My eyes snap to Sebastian. He doesn’t move for half a second. Then a slow inhale, jaw set. He stands like the weight of the room just landed on his shoulders.

He walks toward me without hurry.

“Let’s go,” he mutters.

Not rude. But not warm.

He doesn’t wait for me to follow. Just brushes past and keeps walking.

I fall in beside him, adjusting my bag higher on my shoulder as we move in silence down a long back hallway. His stride is unhurried, posture closed—no invitation in him, just quiet walls built with purpose.

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