The truth settles heavy in my chest: every time I loosen my grip, someone gets hurt. Every time I choose care over control, something slips through my fingers and shatters.
And Luke—I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, breathing through the pressure building behind them.
Luke wasn’t just someone I wanted. He was someone I almost trusted with the parts of me that don’t survive loss.
And I couldn’t do it again. Not when I already know how this story ends.
She doesn’t say anything else. Just lets the silence settle.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I feel the smallest crack in the wall I’ve built around my heart.
I let my hands fall into my lap and stare at them like they might have answers. They don’t. They’re just hands. Steady on the outside, always. Until they weren’t.
“I let him play,” I say finally, voice scratchy. “Xavier. He said he was fine. I knew better. I should’ve pulled him. But I didn’t.”
Cella doesn’t interrupt. She just waits, pen silent on the page.
“He got hit. Helmet to helmet. Didn’t look bad at first, but then he didn’t get up.” I blink, exhale hard. “They said the bleeding in his brain was slow. That if we’d caught it sooner—” My throat closes. “He doesn’t even remember my name most days now. The days he does are almost worse, he still thinks I’m still his coach. Still loves me. Still talks like nothing ever changed.”
There’s a long pause. I expect her to scribble something down or ask about Xavier’s condition. Instead, she folds her hands again, quiet and steady.
“That was the moment,” she says softly. “Wasn’t it?”
I glance up.
“The moment you decided control was the only way to protect the people you love. That if you just paid close enough attention, stayed strong enough, never let go—then no one would get hurt again.”
I don’t answer.
She leans forward slightly. “You gave Xavier the benefit of the doubt. You trusted him to know his limits. And when that ended badly, you made a promise—maybe not out loud, but a deep one—that you’d never let that happen again.”
Her voice is gentle. Not judgmental. Just… honest.
“So when Luke got hurt and they all realized that he was more to you than a player, that promise took over. Not your heart. Not your instincts. Just that old fear.”
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “It felt right,” I whisper. “Like the only right thing I could do. Letting him go, keeping him safe, giving him space to move on without the scandal clinging to him.”
“But it wasn’t about what Luke needed,” she says quietly. “It was about what you needed to feel safe. What your trauma needed.”
That lands.Hard. Because I can’t refute it.
And it shifts something. Not enough to fix everything, not enough to undo the choices I’ve made—but enough to make me see them differently.
Enough to realize that maybe I didn’t walk away for him. Maybe I did it for me. And maybe it wasn’t the brave thing I thought it was.
I stare at the rug, my gaze going blurry. Not because it’s interesting, but because if I look at her, I’ll fall apart.
“I didn’t just lose him,” I say finally. “I lost who I was with him. I lost the version of me that… believed in good things. That let people in. That made plans.”
My voice is rough. It sounds like someone else’s.
“I haven’t made a real plan since,” I admit. “I just… manage. Control the variables. Keep people at arm’s length. Don’t promise things I might not be able to deliver.”
Cella doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her listening. Not in that distant therapist way, but in therealway. The human way.
I swallow hard. “And then Luke happened. And he was—heis—bright. Loud. Alive in a way I forgot how to be. Andhe saw me. Not just Coach Gray. Not just the one in control. Hesawme. And I liked it.”
My hands curl into fists.
