Selene’s POV
Mid-season trades always bring chaos. New personalities to integrate, established dynamics to disrupt, egos to manage. It's my least favorite part of the job—the delicate work of helping someone find their place while everyone else adjusts to make room.
But something about this trade feels different. Wrong. Like a note played slightly off-key in an otherwise familiar song.
Derek Hollins arrives on a Tuesday with a reputation that precedes him like a warning shot. Talented point guard, explosive scorer, anger issues that have gotten him benched twice this season. His previous team—Philadelphia—was apparently thrilled to offload him for a second-round pick and salary relief.
Philadelphia.
I noticed that detail immediately. File it away in the part of my brain that catalogs threats. Tell myself it's a coincidence. Philadelphia has dozens of players. They can't all be connected to the worst chapter of my life.
"You're assigned to Hollins," my supervisor tells me. "He's mandatory, sessions twice a week. The trade agreement requires psychological support."
"Required by whom?"
"Both organizations. Apparently there were... incidents. Multiple incidents. The front office wants him monitored."
She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't have to. Derek Hollins' highlight reel of outbursts is well-documented online. Chairs thrown during timeouts. Referees cursed in multiple languages. A teammate shoved during practice hard enough to require medical evaluation. The kind of behavior that screams unaddressed trauma but presents as pure aggression.
I pull his file. Read it three times. Prepare myself for a challenging client, the kind I used to specialize in before everything changed.
I'm not prepared for what walks into my office Thursday afternoon.
Derek is tall—taller than I expected—with broad shoulders and a permanent scowl etched into handsome features. He drops into the chair across from me without greeting, legs sprawled wide, taking up space like he's claiming territory.
"So you're the shrink." Not a question. An accusation.
"Dr. Marlowe. We can use first names if you prefer."
"I prefer not being here at all."
"That's a common feeling in mandatory sessions. It often changes with time."
His eyes narrow. Sharp. Assessing. "You're the one living with Nielsen and Velasco, right?"
The question lands like a slap. Professional mask in place, but my pulse jumps.
"I'm not sure how that's relevant to your session."
"Just making conversation." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Small world. I played with someone who used to date you. Cassian Drummond. He had interesting things to say."
My blood goes cold.
"Mr. Hollins, these sessions are confidential spaces to discuss your mental health and performance. If you'd like to start by talking about your transition to the team—"
"I'd like to start by establishing boundaries, Doc." He leans forward, elbows on knees, getting into my space without technically crossing lines. "You can't get inside my head if I don't let you. And I don't let anyone in. Especially not someone who can't keep their personal life personal."
The implication hangs between us like smoke. I know what he's doing—establishing dominance, testing reactions, looking for cracks he can exploit. Textbook manipulation tactics, the kind I've dealt with a hundred times before.
What I don't know is why. What's the endgame? What does he gain from antagonizing his mandatory therapist in week one?
Unless gaining something isn't the point. Unless causing damage is.
"I appreciate you sharing your concerns," I say evenly, keeping my voice measured. "Trust takes time to build. For now, let's focus on what brought you to this session—"
"What brought me is a contract that says I have to show up twice a week or I don't play." He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "So I showed up. Congratulations. Session over."
"We have forty-five minutes remaining."
"Bill me."
He walks out. The door doesn't quite slam, but it's close enough to make a point.
I sit in the silence he leaves behind, hands steady through sheer force of will. My heart is pounding. Not from intimidation—from recognition.
That wasn't a random difficult client. That was targeted.
I pull up his file again. Previous team: Philadelphia. Agent: Marcus Webb. The same agency that represents half the league's problem players and takes a special interest in reputation management.
The same agency that represented Cassian during our relationship.
No.
I switch to my personal laptop, the one not connected to the facility network. Search Derek Hollins. Scroll through images, past game highlights and team photos, until I find it.
A charity event, two years ago. Derek Hollins and Cassian Drummond, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera like old friends. Caption: "Teammates supporting the Philadelphia Youth Basketball Initiative."
They were teammates. Before Cassian became a franchise player, Derek got traded for behavioral issues. Before I ever entered the picture. Before any of this.
Now Derek's here. In Seattle. On my caseload. Making pointed comments about my "personal life" in our very first session. Mentioning Cassian by name like he wanted me to know the connection.
Coincidence doesn't stretch that far. Coincidence has limits, and this one shattered them in the first five minutes.
I close my laptop. Stare at the wall where my degrees hang, the credentials I've spent a decade earning, the professional reputation I rebuilt piece by painful piece after Philadelphia, after the scandal, after everything Cassian put me through.
Cassian is doing this. Sending someone to—what? Provoke me? Document my failures? Give him ammunition for whatever revenge he's been planning since I went public with our story?
My phone buzzes. Text from Mateo: How's your day going? Axel's making that pasta you like for dinner.
Normal life. The life I'm building. The life someone is actively trying to destroy.
I type back: Long day. Tell you about it tonight.
But I won't tell them. Not yet. Not until I understand what I'm dealing with. Not until I have proof that this isn't paranoia, that the man who betrayed me is still reaching across three thousand miles to twist the knife.
I have three days until Derek's next mandatory session.
Three days to figure out what Cassian wants and how to stop him from getting it.
My phone buzzes again. Different number this time. Unknown. Blocked caller ID.
I open it against my better judgment.
Nice office. Heard the first session went well.
No signature. No context needed. The message is clear: I see you. I'm watching. I have people everywhere.
He's watching. Somehow, through Derek or someone else, Cassian is watching everything I do. Keeping tabs. Waiting for me to slip.
My hands finally shake.
I let them. For thirty seconds, alone in my office with the door closed and the blinds drawn, I let myself feel the fear. The violation. The exhausting reality that running away doesn't work when the person chasing you has unlimited resources, wounded pride, and nothing left to lose.
Then I breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. The technique I've taught a hundred clients when their world felt like it was closing in.
I steady myself. Pull up Derek's file one more time. Start documenting everything—his arrival time, his statements, his early departure. Every detail that might matter later.
If Cassian wants a war, I'll give him one. But I'll fight it my way—with documentation, professionalism, and the kind of patience that makes impulsive men make mistakes.
He sent Derek to break me.
He's going to watch me be unbreakable instead.