Seb finally talked.
Quietly and hesitantly at first, his fingers restlessly twist the cap of the water bottle in his hands. He didn’t tell Wagner everything, but enough to paint a rough picture.
The anxiety. The nights when sleep evades him, even when he’s dead on his feet. The mornings when leaving the house seems like an impossible task, every step toward the door like wading through mud. The days on which his own brain locks him into the apartment, caught in an endless loop of checking whether he turned off the stove, whether he switched off the lights, whether he really turned off the stove, going back to take a picture for proof, then going back for a second and third, then checking the lights again—and by the time he’s finally through the door, he’s exhausted and ashamed and also running late, no matter when he set the alarm.
Felix made a soft sound at that, somewhere between a strangled gasp and a word, his hand reaching for Seb at the same time as mine. We knew, technically, all of that, but we didn’t know justhow badit was or how well we'd covered it up for him over the past years. What once felt like solidarity seems wrong now.
We should’ve done this earlier, I realize.We should’ve talked earlier; gotten help.
Wagner is pressing the palms of his hands together as if he’s praying, his eyes staring at a point beyond this room or the present day.
I shift in my chair, uncomfortably aware of the cold sweat acting like glue between my skin and undershirt.
Wagner straightens up when he catches my movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Sebastian,” he says. I’ve never heard him use Seb’s first name before. It sounds strange coming out of his mouth—way less threatening.
Seb must have caught it, too. He looks up from where his fingers are still screwing and unscrewing the cap of his water bottle.
“What happened on the field today—” Wagner starts, then stops abruptly again to reorganize his thoughts. “What I did was wrong. I want to say that very clearly so there’s no ambiguity. I fucked up, and I owe you an apology. All of you, in fact.”
Seb doesn’t say anything to that, but his fingers have finally gone still around the bottle cap.
“I’ve been watching you run late for months now. I’ve been watching you retreat into your own world or doze off in the tape room,” he continues. “And I’ve built a story around it in my head. I decided what it meant, and I stopped looking for other explanations. That was a failure of judgment on my part, and I will have to make that right again.”
“It’s okay,” Seb mumbles, his words barely audible, eyes downcast. He probably already regrets fessing up to all of this.
“It’s really not, but I want you to understand how I arrived at my conclusion,” Wagner tells him softly, his head ducking in an attempt to make eye contact. “As you’re probably aware, I know your brothers. Roman, Leo, and I came up around the same time. I played with them and against them. Roman, in particular.” Something passes over his face when he says that. I can’t name it, it moves through too quickly—there and gone again in the blink of an eye.
“You might not want to hear this, but there’s a lot of him in how you play, so I thought I knew how you looked on the inside, too. I didn’t know just how wrong I was.”
Seb licks his lips, then clears his throat. “Roman is—” he starts, only to break off and let silence take over. Whatever he was about to say, Wagner seems to understand.
“Yeah, I know. But I should’ve understood that you’re your own person, not just a younger version of him. And I shouldn’t have let my experience with him influence my work with you. That was extremely unprofessional and unfair, and I’m sorry that happened.”
My shoulders sag a little at that, and I sink back against my chair, my leg still pressed against Seb’s. Felix lets out a deep breath at the same time. For a second, our eyes meet behind Seb’s back.
“I still wish you had come to me with this earlier, but I also understand why you didn’t,” Wagner goes on, a hint of guilt in his otherwise smooth voice. “My job isn’t just to train you. I should’ve created an environment where you, all of you, felt safe coming to me with your problems, and I failed at that, too.”
“That’s not just on you, Mo,” Novák interjects gently. It’s the first time he’s said anything since we entered Wagner’s office. He’s sitting forward in his chair now, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug that reads‘Best Dad in the world’.
Wagner doesn’t say anything, only nods before reaching for a stack of business cards on his desk. They’re aligned with military precision, like everything in this office.“We have qualified people on staff—Dr. Ellis, Dave Johnson, Andrea Kremers. But I understand if you don’t feel comfortable talking to someone from the school. So I’d like to give you the number of my therapist.”
This information, given away so casually as Wagner holds out one of the cards to Seb, lets all our heads snap up at the same time. The right corner of Wagner’s mouth twitches. It’s not a real smile, but close enough.
“It’s not a condition to stay on the roster. But you deserve help. Actual help from qualified people who know what they’re doing. You have great friends in your corner, and you also have us now,” he says, gesturing between Novák and him. “But…just consider it, okay? This is a tough sport, and it’s even tougher with that name on your jersey.”
Seb doesn’t say anything for so long that I almost think he won’t respond at all. But then he reaches out and takes the card.
I let out an involuntary hiss when his fingers close around it. My first thoughts include calculating how much an hour with Wagner’s therapist would cost and that insurance probably won’t cover enough. But then I remember that Seb could make more with one Instagram post than that therapist might earn in a month.
Money won’t be the problem here.
“And my door,” Novák speaks up, directly looking at Seb once he has put the card away, “is always open. Any time, any reason. You don’t have to make an appointment or come prepared with a speech. Just knock and walk in.”
Seb looks at him, then nods. “Thank you,” he says, the sound nothing more than an exhausted exhale.
“One more thing before I let you go,” Wagner says, his eyes wandering over all three of us. Seb first, then Felix, then me. “I want to say something, and I want you to actually hear it and take it with you, not just wait for me to finish talking.”
