Page 27 of Second Sin

And I don’t know how to sit in this room, breathing the same air, and pretend I’m not coming apart.

One of the rookies—Dalton—starts talking about the pressure he feels to perform on game nights, how he’s not sleeping. Austin Branson follows with something half-serious about pregame anxiety and puking in his glove once. That gets a round of snorts.

“Wait,” Tyler says, laughing. “Was that in the middle of the anthem?”

“Close,” Branson grins. “Some poor kid had to swap out my gear mid-warmup.”

“You should come with a warning label," Dalton says, mock horror in his voice.

Tyler elbows Dalton. “Pretty sure I saw you puke once, too.”

Dalton raises an eyebrow. “Nope. That was you. After tequila shots the night before conditioning camp.”

“Hey,” Tyler grins. “I was hydrating. Improperly.”

There are a few chuckles and more than a few eye rolls between the men.

“I mean, sure,” Tyler says, stretching back in his chair, “sometimes I can’t breathe before a game. But that’s normal, right? That’s not trauma. That’s just being a fucking legend.”

Laughter rolls around the room. Even Olivia smiles, but her eyes flick toward me again. Brief. Cautious. I look away.

“Yeah, but that’s just adrenaline,” Branson says. “Like pre-game jitters. Not the same thing as, like, actual shit messing with your head.”

“Exactly,” Tyler says. “We’re athletes. We’re built for pressure. Comes with the job. Not sure why we have to keep doing this therapy shit.”

The room quiets a little. A beat passes.

Kane leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. His voice is low but firm, and I feel the weight of his stare when he says, “You never really know what someone’s dragging behind them.”

Blake’s next to him, quiet, arms crossed but eyes tracking everything. Especially me.

“Sebastian?” Olivia asks. "Anything to add today?"

The room stills.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

She doesn’t press. Just closes her notebook softly, like she expected it.

The rest of the session blurs. I listen. I breathe. I sit still. But the whole time, I can feel Blake’s stare.

And Olivia’s eyes when she thinks I’m not looking—like she’s trying to read something I’ve worked hard to bury.

When it ends, I move to leave fast.My hands won’t stop twitching. Every part of me’s buzzing—agitated, on edge—and I don’t even know why I’m so pissed.

Outside in the hallway, Blake corners me.“You’ve been a dick lately,” he says, no preamble.

I don’t answer.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not your business.”

He snorts. “It kind of is. You’re not exactly subtle, Wilde. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You don't say more than a few words to anyone off the ice. On the ice, you’re racking up stupid penalties. And every time Olivia walks in a room, you look like you want to either fuck her or run your fist through a wall.”

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