Page 83 of Second Sin

And if this ruins me—if it ruins her—I don’t know how I’ll come back from it.

But right now, I’d burn everything just to keep holding her like this.

Because for the first time in years, I don’t feel empty.

I feel alive.

CHAPTER 32

OLIVIA

The training room hums with quiet motion.

Stretch bands snap. Cold packs hiss. A table creaks under shifting weight. Trainers move with practiced efficiency—muscle rub, evaluations, quiet checklists.

I stand near the back wall, clipboard to my chest, reviewing notes between casual check-ins. This isn’t therapy. Not officially. Just quick pulses—how’s the sleep, the stress, the shoulder. The guys are cooperative enough, but no one’s really in the mood to talk.

My focus flickers, immediate and sharp, the second I feel Sebastian nearby.

Shirtless, towel slung over his shoulders, joggers riding low on his hips. Skin flushed from the post-practice grind. Hair still damp from the shower like he didn’t bother drying it all the way.

My pulse kicks, uninvited. A slow, steady thrum low in my belly. I don’t let my gaze linger, but it doesn’t matter—my body already noticed.

We've managed to keep a professional distance, as per Coach’s instructions. No eye contact during team hours. No brushes of fingers when we pass in the hall. No lingering inshared spaces. It’s a careful act—one we’ve gotten better at in the past couple of weeks.

But outside the arena, it’s different.

Not easier. Just…ours.

I’ve spent a few nights at his place. He’s stayed at mine. But I know he sleeps better in his own bed—king-sized, cool sheets, space to sprawl. He’s never said it outright, but I can feel it in the way his body lets go when he’s home. Like something inside him exhales. Like this is the only place he ever really learned to rest.

And still, when he pulls me close in the dark, one hand low on my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck, I sleep better than I have in years.

But here—this space—I tuck all of that away.

Instead, I move to Reilly, who’s got one leg stretched out on the taping table, scowling at his phone.

“How’s the ankle?” I ask.

“Feels like garbage fire. But manageable.”

“That’s the official term?”

He snorts. “Trainer said I could probably go full-contact again next week.”

“And how’s the headspace?”

Reilly’s mouth twists. “Better now that I’m back skating. I lose my mind when I’m benched too long.”

“I’ll mark that as progress. But keep checking in.”

I scribble a note on my clipboard and move on to Oliver who’s leaning against the far counter, sipping a protein shake. He’s got bags under his eyes and dried blood on his knuckle.

“Any sleep this week?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Couple hours here and there.”

“You still doing the screen shutdown two hours before bed?”

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