Page 8 of Second Sin

"You going to just stand there staring?" His voice cuts through the music—low, rough, and edged with something that sounds a hell of a lot like irritation.

I catch his gaze in the mirror.

Shit.

I clear my throat, straighten my spine—pretend he didn’t just catch me checking him out. “Blowing off group to squeeze in a workout?"

He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to lift.”

“You don’t. But you do need to show up.”

He grabs a towel and wipes his face, then tosses it aside. “I don’t talk in circles.”

I step closer. “This isn’t about talking. It’s about presence. Support. Not just for you.”

His jaw ticks. “I’m not anyone’s support system.”

I hold his stare. “No, but you’re part of a team. Evenyoudon’t get to opt out of that.”

Silence stretches. God, I hate how aware I am of him.

“I’m not your project,” he says gruffly.

His eyes flick to my hand. I didn’t realize I was fiddling with my ring.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just picks up the bar again.

I stay where I am. “I have to submit a report, Sebastian.”

That gets a grunt. Nothing more.

“It includes participation. Progress. Miss enough sessions, and it could affect your playing time.”

He sets the bar down harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the empty gym. “You think I give a shit?”

“I think you do,” I say quietly. “Even if you’re trying hard not to.”

He turns away, running a hand through his damp hair.

“I’ve watched the games,” I add. “The penalties. The fights. Even the way you skate—you’re hurting, and it’s leaking out in every shift, every hit, every time you throw your gloves down like it’s the only way to breathe.”

That gets his attention. His head turns, sharp. “Stick to psychoanalyzing people, Doc. Don’t try to dissect a sport you clearly don’t understand.”

“I don’t need to understand hockey,” I say. “I understand people. And anger. And what happens when it festers.”

He steps closer, eyes hard. “I’m not angry.”

I hold still. “Then whatareyou?”

His mouth opens—but nothing comes out. He swears under his breath, turning away like the weight of the question’s too much.

And in that crack—just for a second—I see it.

Not defiance.

Not arrogance.

But guilt.Shame.

---