Serena.

Roman Miller has never smiled at me. Not once, in all the years I've known him as my sister's brother-in-law. I used to think it was just me. Now I know better, the man doesn't smile at anyone.

Though I have had a crush on him secretly.

I stand at the counter beside Mara, the heat of the gas cooker warming my arms as we work through the last of the dishes.

"I still haven't heard anything," I say. "Not from the hospitals, not the clinics, not anywhere else I applied. Weeks of nothing but silence. Not even a rejection."

Mara sets the lid down carefully.

"You can't give up that easily, Serena. Good things take time. Someone will surely see what you're worth."

"And if they don't?" I let out a short breath. "I might just go back to menial work so I can survive. At least it pays something. At least I'll not be idle and waiting."

"Don't say that." Her voice sharpens. "Promise me you won't decide anything until a few responses come back."

The words have barely left her mouth when a cry cuts through the kitchen. Mara's daughter, Kara, is wailing from the travel trolley behind us. Mara wipes her hands on a cloth, already moving.

"Excuse me. I have to feed the baby. She's hungry."

She's gone before she adds anything more.

I'm left alone with the half-cooked dishes, the pots still simmering. I stare at everything left to carry out and wonder what year I'll finally finish all of this. Without an extra pair of hands, I might be here longer than I planned. I start cooking.

Mara doesn't come back.

From the living room, I hear the high voices of my in-laws and my sister, arguing about something that does not sound intriguing at all. Once I am done, I start setting the dining table.

Then the main door bursts open. Roman walks in.

He closes the door behind him, sweaty and disoriented, pulling every eye in the room toward him.

His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, like he's finished running a marathon. He's always late to every family dinner without fail, but tonight the lateness feels different.

He mutters something that might be an apology and drops into a chair like it's the easiest thing to do. His hands, I notice, aren't quite steady.

My eyes stay on him longer than they should, watching the line of his shoulders beneath his damp shirt, the way his jaw works.

I catch myself staring and look away, annoyed at my own pulse for reacting to a man who has never once looked back. He hasn't even glanced my way yet, but I am dying to speak to him.

"The meals are ready. Everything's set. Come and eat," I call toward the living room.

They come, and soon chairs scrape against the floor. Everyone compliments me on how good everything smells, how long it must have taken for me to cook everything.

Mara scolds herself for leaving me alone in the kitchen for so long, but I don't mind. Of course, I do.

Everyone talks except Roman. He stares past the plates, past the voices, as if the people around him don't exist at all. His jaw is set, his mouth a flat line.

While everyone starts to eat, he only picks at his food.

Mara finally breaks the tension.

"We should start planning something for Kara's second birthday. I want something big and unforgettable."

"We should keep it low-key. It will be easier to plan, and the cost of the celebration will be less," Ethan disagrees.

"I agree with Ethan. This will put less pressure on the couple," I add.

Roman says nothing. He chews slowly, eyes fixed somewhere past the far edge of the table. Until his father sets down his fork and clears his throat.

"Roman. How's the football going? The club's been on a losing streak recently, and you're supposed to help the club as a star. Why do the results keep getting worse? What have you done to rectify it?"

The air at the table drops. I catch the shift in Roman's face. He is starting to get angry, but no one knows.

His father presses further, his voice climbing. "Your recent performances haven't been what they should be. You can't keep calling yourself a footballer if you can't string together a win. You are nothing but a disgrace."

"That's enough. Not at this table," his mother warns.

Roman pushes his chair back without a word and walks out. His father's anger doesn't cool with him gone. If anything, it lingers in the silence he leaves behind.

Dinner draws to an end without him.

When the dishes are finally cleared, I step outside to empty the trash. That's when I see him. He's sitting at the edge of the outdoor bench, listening to music, staring at nothing.

I sit down beside him without waiting to be asked. He turns the volume down, but he doesn't look at me. Just the same way he hasn't looked at me in years.

Sometimes I wonder if he'd even recognize my face in a crowd. And somewhere in my heart, a little stupid part of me has always wanted him to.

"You look good with the new haircut," I try, reaching for a conversation we've never really had.

"Thank you." A pause, then, "You're Mara's little sister, right?"

Something in me deflates more than it should. Though he's not wrong because that's exactly what I am to him. Mara's little sister.

The only thing connecting us all. Yet I am pained that he only sees me that way since all these years.

He finally turns his head, giving me a flat, assessing look, like he's deciding if I'm worth talking to or not.

The look is insulting, and I nearly regret not going straight back inside.

"Did that question hurt you?" he asks.

"No," I lie. "I was just trying to be nice to you. It doesn't hurt anyone to be nice."

Every instinct tells me to leave. Any reasonable person would walk away after being handed cold indifference like that. Instead, I sit a moment longer, stubbornly waiting for him to say something worse.

"Serena."

Mara's voice cuts through from inside, saving me from whatever humiliation was coming next. I'm on my feet and moving before I can think twice, heading back into the house without looking behind me.

An hour later, I climb into a cab home. When it pulls up outside my building, I pay, step out, and head upstairs. Inside, I switch on my laptop and scroll through my inbox the way I've done every night for weeks.

One subject line stops me cold.

I've been offered a sports psychologist position at Chestfield Football Club.

The same club where Roman plays.

My hand freezes on the trackpad. Of all the places I applied to.

Serena..

I sit with that thought long after the laptop goes dim, wondering if this is really the job I had waited for months.

I had applied to other clubs, clinics, establishments that don't have the man who's spent years pretending I'm invisible.

But I know that with my desperation, turning down the job offer will be senseless.

I arrive at the club the next morning feeling nervous, wondering if I can actually help lead this club somewhere better, even in some small way.

I also can't stop thinking about the clause in the contract: three months' probation, with my performance reviewed at week six.

If there's no good change in any of the players by then, they will let me go without severance.

I had read that clause four times before signing it last night.

At the club, the head coach leads me to the training grounds, where the session is already ongoing. He tells me to wait at the edge of the pitch until the players finish.

Then he beckons me over and draws their attention.

"This is Serena Baker, our newly appointed sports psychologist. She'll be working with all of you from now on. Feel free to bring any concerns to her, physical or mental."

I step forward and shake hands with the first few players. Others offer nods from a distance.

Then my eyes land on Roman. His face stays blank the moment our gazes lock, giving nothing away. This is someone who didn't say a real word to me a day ago.

When it's his turn, he shakes my hand briefly, almost like the contact would bring rashes on his skin.

His expression is more hardened, like my presence here isn't something he welcomes so much. Even so, I cannot forget the warmth of his hand a beat longer than I should. I hate myself for it.

Once the introductions end, the head coach walks me toward my office.

"The club's biggest concern right now is getting Roman properly assessed. His performance has dropped badly over the last few months. The last psychologist made no real progress with him. We let him go after three months when nothing changed," he says.

He pauses outside my office.

"We're hoping you'll do better. The board's watching him closely. We need him back to where he was. Can you do it?"

I swallow nervously. Making a promise is easy. Keeping it is another matter entirely.

And I can't afford to fail, not with rent due in three weeks, and I have exactly one month of savings left in my account.

I know full well that giving anything less than my best here is close to a professional death sentence and financial wreckage. So I don't let myself hesitate.

"Yes. I will try my best."

"Good to hear. I'll send him over shortly so you two can begin the first assessment."

He taps my shoulder and leaves.

I step inside the office and sit at my desk.

While I wait, I switch on the tablet and scroll through Roman's psychological reports and match data. There are pages after pages of notes, numbers, and declining statistics on the screen.

More importantly, he's had four missed shots in his last three matches.

I start to wonder what really went wrong.

At the start of his career at Chestfield, he was vibrant. A high-ranking striker and a really great footballer. But over the last year, everything seems to have collapsed.

The door clicks open, and Roman walks in. He takes the chair across from me without being told, crossing his arms, locking eyes with mine.

I let out a slow breath, hoping my first real assessment doesn't fall apart before it starts. He is my client first, and I have to do my job excellently.

I have to let go of my feelings for him if I want to keep this job and get paid to pay my dues.

"The club wants to understand what's been affecting your performance on the pitch," I say, keeping my voice steady. "That's why you're here."

Silence. A long one. He studies me from my hair down to my mouth with the kind of intense look that makes my heart beat.

I feel it land somewhere it shouldn't and quickly force my attention back to the tablet in my hands before my naughty thoughts get in the way.

"You're shaking," he says. "How did you even become a psychologist?"

I frown. "That's not why you're here. And it's not the question I asked."

"I know. I'm here because my coach thinks talking to a psychologist will magically make me score more goals."

"It's more than that."

"Like what, Miss Serena?"

I hold my breath.

"Scoring goals is the end result. First, we need to understand what's affecting how you perform, like pressure, concentration, confidence, motivation, performance anxiety. All of it shapes how you play, whether you admit it or not."

"I don't have anxiety."

I raise an eyebrow, calling on every ounce of patience I have.

"Then explain missing four shots in your last three matches. That's not like you. Your own numbers from a year ago are far better than this."

He leans back, drawing out a long breath while his face goes rigid. Something tells me I've struck a nerve. But I need to keep pushing regardless.

I start making notes on my tablet.

"Did you become a psychologist just so you could ask me that?" he throws back, pressing his lips into a thin line.

I hate that I'm cataloguing every flicker of his expression like it matters, and hate even more that some of that cataloguing isn't strictly professional.

"If you're serious about getting better, you'll have to be honest with me."

His face gives nothing away as he stands abruptly and circles the office, eyes dragging flatly across the pictures on the wall.

Then he stops without looking back.

"I'm done with the interrogation for today."

"Roman!" I yell. The word comes out sharply at his audacity.

How dare he tell me what to do?

He looks back at me, giving me a cold, arrogant stare that makes my skin crawl.

"Please. Be more formal."

"What?"

A soft knock sounds at the door, and a staff member calls him away. He leaves without another word, his expression exactly as unreadable on the way out as it was walking in.

I remain seated, mentally exhausted and angry, but still force myself to write the session up anyway.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought. I'd assumed my emotions would stay out of this.

I still wonder why my very first patient had to be him when every answer he gives is meant to shut the conversation down.

By the time I finally leave for the day and walk out of my office, I spot him at the far end of the corridor, talking to a staff member.

Once our eyes meet, he turns back to his conversation, like I was never there at all.

Sere

All through my ride home, I cannot stop pondering Roman's situation and how my life has become increasingly difficult just on the first day at work.

Yet I conclude that if I am certain about keeping this job, I need to get close to Roman and find the causes for his performance issues.

Therefore, aside from observing the training sessions from the sidelines, talking with a few coaching staff, and beginning scheduled work with a few other players, I try to find ways to get closer to Roman over the next few days.

I search for all possible means to begin a friendly conversation with him, but the moment I do, he's off, going elsewhere.

So every observation I have concerning him is done strictly from afar.

Until the fifth day, during a sunny afternoon session, I finally have my chance. Roman misses a pass, and a teammate snaps at him.

The argument escalates fast enough that the head coach steps in and sends Roman to the bench. From where I stand, I watch him drop his head, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

And realizing this is my opportunity, I walk over and sit two seats from him. I let him sense my presence before speaking.

"How do you feel about missing that pass earlier?" I start.

"Don't bring that up," he replies, lifting his head.

"You know I have to discuss every issue. This is part of my job. It's not like I love checking up on you all the time." I lie through my teeth.

"What about checking up on me after the family dinner?"

Now it's my turn to borrow his own words.

"Don't bring that up."

I look ahead, thinking how a work-related issue ends up with mentioning family dinner.

Suddenly, at that moment, a white ball comes flying off the pitch, heading straight at me. My heart leaps into my throat. Every instinct tells me to jump off and run away, but my butt is glued to the chair.

Besides, my reflexes are nothing to brag about. Roman's hand shoots out and catches it cleanly before it reaches me. I let out a breath that's half relief, half leftover fear.

"You seem pale and terrified. Relax. It's just a ball," he says flatly.

"It might have caused a head injury if it had actually hit me. It isn't just a ball."

He looks back at the pitch without responding. When the training ends, he stands, heading for the tunnel without a glance in my direction. I chase after him.

"We're not done discussing, Roman."

"I'm done on my end. Keep discussing if you want to." He disappears ahead of me, insolent as ever.

I remain rooted, staring at the space he just walked through, my fists clenching and unclenching. Hitting him with the ball wouldn't be entirely unreasonable, would it?

I've been enduring his insolent attitude, and it's starting to wear on me.

While other players pass around me, the head coach suddenly appears and falls into step beside me.

"How's the assessment with Roman going? I saw the two of you talking on the bench."

"Roman? I think he'll improve with time. With more sessions, he'll open up. I believe that." I lie. I know I'm lying, knowing full well it isn't true.

Roman might not end up telling me anything till my job ends. But I have to keep trying.

"I believe you, Miss Serena. If he keeps spending time with you, his performance should come back. Keep it up. We're counting on you."

He taps my shoulder while I nod, guilt sitting low in my stomach. I smile like it doesn't cost me anything, but the words stay with me for the rest of the walk to my office.

We're counting on you.

If Roman doesn't improve, I already know whose name gets crossed off the staff list next, and I've envisioned exactly how fast it'll happen, because it already happened to the psychologist before me.

Back in my office, I pack up and decide to stop at the grocery store before heading home. By the time I reach the exit, the sky is getting cloudy.

Rain starts pouring heavily. I remember I have no car, and the walk out of the grounds is long.

Just then, someone steps up beside me beneath the covered doorway.

Roman.

He's holding a dark umbrella. He looks down at me, giving an amused expression, though it's gone before I can be sure it was ever there.

"Want me to help? Wanna come in?"

I'm still irritated from earlier, but I don't have much of a choice. I swallow my pride and follow him to the car. He starts the engine and pulls out toward the club exit.

"Were you planning on walking into the rain, Miss Serena? Catching a cold is a real possibility."

"I have no choice," I say, folding my arms.

A long silence fills the car. He starts taking a turn I don't recognize, heading somewhere else entirely, and I finally have to speak up.

"I'm heading to a grocery store. Not that way."

He redirects without comment, eyes fixed on the road the entire drive. I expect him to leave the moment I step out. He doesn't even flinch.

When I finish shopping and come back out, his car is still parked there, waiting. I stand there for a second, almost stunned.

I settle into the passenger seat and look at him.

"Why did you wait?"

He opens his mouth and closes it again.

"It felt like the right thing to do was to wait."

When he clears his throat, the awkwardness is written plainly across his face.

"Thank you," I say, sincerely. "I really mean that."

A heavy silence settles between us.

I enjoy the silence for a moment until my mind drifts back to something Mara once told me: that Roman had a promising career before his transfer to Chestfield.

That he used to be cheerful and loving. The kind of person everyone gravitated toward. Before coming to this present club. And when he started playing below the standard, the hateful comments from fans grew.

Soon he became withdrawn and gloomy. And his parents didn't help matters.

Figuring out what actually made him lose motivation to play well is the real work here.

How do I find the root of his problem when he won't give me anything to work with?

And his father, who was a football star once, why would he choose to be so hard on his own son, who is walking the same path he once walked?

The car slows. We've stopped in front of my building. I look around, realizing I have never given him my address before. Shock keeps me still for a second.

"How did you know where I live—"

He doesn't wait for me to finish. The moment I step out, he drives away, the car disappearing down the street before I can even finish the question.