Page 84 of Second Sin

He gives me a sheepish smile. “...Technically.”

I level him with a look that’s more amusement than reprimand.

“I know,” he says quickly. “Just hard shutting my brain off.”

“I get that. Try journaling again. Even five minutes a night can help.”

He groans, all mock drama. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not the boss of me.”

I arch a brow. “Want me to call your mother?”

He grins, hands raising in surrender. “I take it back. You’re very much the boss of me.”

I chuckle and walk away.

Aleksander’s the last on my list. He’s always easy. Quiet but honest—one of the few who never postures.

“Still feeling the pressure?” I ask, stopping a few feet away as he leans into a slow quad stretch on the mat.

He nods once. “Scoring drought’s in my head.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

His smile is faint.

I offer him a grounding exercise—short, practical, nothing too clinical—and make a mental note to follow up later this week.

I’ve learned the guys rhythms. Their silences. The way they pull on a hoodie when they’re overstimulated or tape their sticks tighter when they’re anxious. It’s not about how much they talk—it’s about whether they keep showing up.

And they do.

Even when they roll their eyes. Even when the answers are clipped.

We’ve built something. Quiet. Earned. And despite my initial anger at Sebastian for going to Coach, I'm grateful I'm still here.

As if sensing me thinking about him, Sebastian walks past, that same quiet intensity stitched into every step. Our eyes catch for the briefest second. A small nod. Barely a beat.

“Check your text,” he murmurs, voice low and even, without stopping.

And just like that, he’s gone again.

But the echo of him stays.

I wait a beat before slipping my phone from my pocket.

You are so fucking beautiful.

Heat creeps up my neck, blooming across my cheeks. I glance around—no one’s looking—then type back quickly.

Not professional. I’m working.

The reply comes fast.

I know. And tonight, when I’ve got you under me, I’m going to make you forget every rule you’re trying to follow.

My breath catches in my throat, sharp and involuntary. I lock the screen like it might stop the flood inside me—heat, want, that dangerous pull towards him. I tuck the phone away and lift my gaze, intending to stay focused, keep moving.

But he’s looking.

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