Page 7 of Second Sin

The session goes fine—low engagement but no resistance. I take notes, keep my tone soft, and only ask open-ended questions. A couple of the younger guys talk. One mentions his dad’s heart attack last season. Another shares about post-game anxiety. Nothing deep.

But it’s a start.

Kind of.

Ryder Knox keeps cracking his knuckles like the silence pisses him off.

Tyler Slade barely looks up from his phone.

Blake Starowics doesn’t say a word, but his expression is watchful—like he’s reading the room, not me. Steady, respectful. Protective in a way that doesn’t need to be loud.

The second the hour’s up, most of them are already on their feet—like the clock gave them permission to breathe again. Ryder’s out the door first. Slade trails after him without a word.

Only Blake lingers.

He stops at the door, glances over his shoulder. “You’re good at this, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “At group therapy with emotionally constipated athletes?”

Not my finest display of restraint—but it’s honest, and it’s already out.

At least he laughs, and adds, “Exactly that.” Then his tone shifts, softer. “They need you. Even if they don’t get it yet.”

Then he’s gone too.

His words stay behind, though—settling somewhere beneath my ribs.

He's right.

Men like them don’t ask for help. Most don’t even slow down long enough to realize they need it. But pressure builds. Always does. And eventually, something cracks.

My job is to catch it before it does. On the ice—or off.

I swing by my office, file notes, and check Sebastian’s schedule. Weight training now. He’s supposed to come in after. I already know he won’t.

Part of me’s relieved. The other part…aches a little.

I shouldn’t be this drawn to a man I barely know. But every time his name shows up on the schedule, something in me stirs. Want. Curiosity. That low hum of awareness I can’t seem to shake.

Even when I know he’s not coming.

But avoiding the work doesn’t make the need for it disappear.

If he won’t come to his sessions…I’ll just have to bring the session to him.

I find him in the gym, alone. Tank top. Bruised knuckles. Music low and aggressive, pulsing from a speaker in the corner.

He’s at the free weights, muscles taut with every controlled movement. Chest rising, jaw tight, focus locked like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

His skin glistens with sweat, catching the overhead lights with every flex and lift.I try not to watch the way his biceps bunch, how his back shifts beneath the cling of damp fabric. The veins in his forearms, the steady rhythm of his breath.

Pull it together.He’s just a man. A very sweaty, unfairly hot man—but still.

Lust isn't something I'm used to.Even with Ethan, it was slow. Gentle. Friendship first, comfort next. Attraction came later—safe, steady, earned.

This isn’t that.

This is heat and edge and a dangerous kind of pull I don’t know what to do with.

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