Page 72 of Second Sin

There. Out loud. And it feels like pulling glass from my throat.

He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps staring like he’s waiting for more.

I add, “She never encouraged it. I crossed that line on my own. And I know what you’re thinking?—”

Coach cuts in, voice clipped. “You think this is noble? You fuck up, and now you’re the martyr?”

“No,” I snap. Then lower my voice. “This isn’t about being noble. This is about protecting her.”

He leans forward, elbows hitting the desk with a quiet thud. “If the league hears even a whisper of this—HR, media, ethics review. You’re a player. She’s in a position of authority. Could cost her her license. Could tank her whole career.”

“I know.”

I say it like it’s carved into bone.

Guilt presses in—low and heavy. Because he’s right. Because I knew what I was risking, and I did it anyway.

“There’s gotta be a way around it.”

Coach exhales through his nose—long and deliberate. Doesn’t say a word.

Just leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze pins me in place, steady and unreadable, like he’s flipping through a hundred possible outcomes in his head and none of them are clean.

The silence stretches.

A clock ticks on the wall behind him—slow, insistent.Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum hums, a door shuts, voices blur past and fade. Life moving on like nothing’s breaking in here. But it’s too quiet between us. Heavy with consequences neither of us wants to name.

He runs a thumb along the edge of his jaw, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s debating whether this is worth the fallout. Whether I am.

Like maybe this would be easier if he just let me burn.

Finally, he speaks—voice low, gruff.

“There is—maybe. But it means lines get drawn. Clear ones. And you don’t cross them. Ever.”

Relief flickers in my chest—sharp and short-lived. Not enough to ease the knot in my stomach, but just enough to breathe.

Because it means I haven’t lost her. Not yet.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not permission. But it’s something.

I nod. “Okay.”

“You want her to stay? Fine. She doesn’t work with you. Not directly. No one-on-ones. No treatment plans. No authority. You’re off her case, permanently.”

“I already told you—I’m recusing myself from her care.”

He gives a slow nod. “Then she stays. But this...whatever this is...stays buried. No drama. No distractions. And you both keepit out of the headlines. I don’t want to read about this on The Athletic.”

His voice hardens.

“And if she ever asks for space, or distance—you give it to her. Without hesitation.”

“I will,” I say. Even if it rips me apart.

“Good.” He sits back again, tension easing slightly from his shoulders. Then his eyes flicker with something new.

“But that doesn’t get you off the hook.”

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