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.

Serena.

I wake the following morning feeling strangely refreshed, a long yawn escaping my mouth as I sit up.

The night has been peaceful and full of sweet dreams. I walk into the kitchen in slow steps and stop short when the memory hits me.

Yesterday, I sat in the same car as Roman. My sister's brother-in-law. My patient. My long-time crush. In a car!

What if someone from the club saw us?

Why didn't I simply reject the offer? Why did I accept?

I should have remained under that covered doorway and turned down the offer plainly.

But I allowed my obsession with him to get in the way, knowing full well that getting involved beyond the professional line could cost me my career.

I could lose my license and be subjected to public shame.

I pour myself a glass of water, drink it in three long swallows, and sigh again. I still haven't told Mara about the new job. For now, I think it's better to keep it to myself until the right time. I fill the kettle and make tea.

After breakfast, I spend nearly an hour scrolling through my phone, watching reels without really paying attention to any of them. I'm just about to open a chat with my friends when Mara's name lights up my screen. I stare at it for a moment before deciding to answer the unexpected call.

"Hello?"

"Serena, hello, dear. Ethan and I have an appointment we can't miss. Kara can't come with us. Can you come over and babysit her for a few hours while we're away?"

I pause. "What? I cannot do that—"

"It won't be long. I promise you that we'll be back before evening."

I start to disagree. "It can't be today. I have things I need to do, including my sleep—"

But the line goes dead before I can finish. I stare at the phone. There is no point arguing with Mara. She always wins.

I dress quickly, pulling on a simple blouse and a pair of faded jeans. I tie my hair into a neat bun before grabbing my bag and leaving my apartment.

An hour later, I get out of the cab and stop outside Mara's residence. The sight that greets me makes me freeze.

What is he doing here?

Roman is standing near the front door, talking to Mara. Ethan is already seated in the car. Mara finishes whatever she's saying, gives Roman a brief nod, and joins her husband.

By the time the car pulls away, Roman turns his head. His eyes find me standing there, wide-eyed and still trying to process his presence.

I walk forward.

"What are you doing here?"

"My brother called me too. Asked me to help babysit Kara."

His voice is even, completely devoid of emotion. I stare at him in disbelief.

"That would never happen. Ethan wouldn't call you for that."

He raises an eyebrow. Then, to my surprise, he nods.

"I don't believe it either."

"Do you know how to babysit kids?"

He shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I mean, I'm here with you."

Before I can add anything else, a sharp cry comes from inside the house. Kara. Her voice is so high-pitched that it nearly hurts my ears.

Roman and I move at the same time. We rush through the front door.

In the living room, Kara has fallen from the sofa and lies on the floor, wailing. I reach her first, scooping her against my chest and immediately checking her over.

"Hey, hey. It's okay."

I pat her back gently, murmuring soft sounds as I hold her close. Roman stands a few steps away, watching us. His expression shifts as he looks at Kara in my arms, then at me.

"Make her some warm cereal," I tell him, realizing Kara needs to eat.

He moves toward the kitchen without a word. I stay where I am, rocking Kara and patting her back, but her crying doesn't ease.

After another minute, I begin searching the living room for toys while still holding her, opening drawers and checking behind cushions, wondering where Mara keeps everything.

Then I notice the silence from the kitchen, remembering Roman is supposed to be making cereal there.

Walking into the kitchen, I see Roman standing at the counter, slowly stirring a spoon through a bowl.

I step closer and look down. The mixture is watery and lumpy, looking nothing like the cereal Kara normally eats. I slowly lift my eyes to him.

"Do you actually not know how to make cereal?"

The look on his face answers the question for him. He doesn't.

Something breaks loose inside me. I laugh. I turn my head, nearly losing my hold on Kara as the laughter keeps coming.

After nearly a minute, I finally manage to calm myself.

"I'm sorry for laughing that way. For laughing loudly at you," I say between breaths.

I freeze when I look at his face.

The corner of his mouth is lifted. His shoulders shake, chuckling.

Roman Miller is laughing. I've spent years believing the man simply didn't know how to smile.

"You're laughing."

His eyes meet mine. Then the smile disappears. His face settles back into its familiar hard expression. As if he has just remembered that he's supposed not to smile.

I take the bowl from him and prepare a proper bowl of cereal.

Soon, we return to the living room. I feed Kara carefully until her cries fade and she eventually falls asleep against my thigh. Roman sits a short distance away, his eyes fixed on a sports show playing on the television.

For several minutes, neither of us speaks.

In a matter of time, the show eventually becomes boring, and my attention drifts back to the question that's been sitting inside me since the kitchen.

I look at him.

"Why did you stop laughing the moment I pointed it out? And why don't you smile? Why do you keep that straight face all the time?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course, I do," I reply, seemingly interested. If Roman will open up to me, my job at Chestfield will be less chaotic.

"I lied to you. I have anxiety. And sleep disorders."

I sit still for a moment, surprised that he's just admitted something personal in a direct way, not through sarcasm or even arrogantly.

I keep my voice gentle. "How long has it been happening? Weeks? Months?"

"Years," he replies.

I nod once, happy with the progression of the conversation. I was elated he could open up to me as his psychologist.

"Have you told anyone before? About your disorders?"

"No."

Just when I am close to getting more words from him, our short conversation gets shortened when Kara stirs and wakes with a restless cry.

Roman looks at the baby, then at me.

"I can take her and rock her to sleep."

I pass her into his arms carefully and watch him sway the baby gently. Her breathing evens out in minutes. Seeing her asleep, he lays her back on the couch.

The house falls into silence after that. I glance around the living room, suddenly feeling bored.

"Chess?" I ask him.

He gives a nod, eyes following my movements.

I find the old chessboard in Mara's side cabinet and bring it back to the center table between us. We settle across from each other and begin to play.

At some point, he disappears into the kitchen and comes back with two bottles of water, setting one down in front of me.

"Thanks." I thank him and keep playing.

When the match finally ends, I stand to carry my empty bottle into the kitchen. My leg catches the edge of the chair.

The floor tilts. I try to hold onto something, but I'm falling backward before I know it.

Roman moves faster, closing his arms around me to steady me on instinct, but that doesn't go as planned because the next thing I know, we land tangled on the couch, on top of each other, my mouth pressing against his.

Everything stills.

Shock ripples through me as I wonder if I should take a bold step and continue kissing him or simply push him away.