Chapter 20 — Cold Distance
By the next morning, Sabrina’s supervisor had turned the gossip post into a policy.
Not because the post was accurate.
Because it was visible.
Sabrina sat across from Dr. Waller in the small office that always smelled like printer ink and lemon cleaner. The blinds were half-closed, slicing the light into lines on the desk like a quiet warning.
Dr. Waller didn’t raise her voice.
She didn’t need to.
“This looks like favoritism,” she said, tapping the printed screenshot. “And perception is half the job in athletics.”
Sabrina kept her hands folded in her lap. “It’s a tunnel walk.”
“It’s a story,” Dr. Waller corrected. “And you don’t get to control what story people tell if you keep giving them frames.”
Sabrina’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t.”
Dr. Waller’s look stayed calm. “You did by being there.”
Sabrina inhaled slowly through her nose.
She didn’t like this.
But she understood it.
“What do you want me to do,” Sabrina asked, voice level.
Dr. Waller slid a single-page protocol across the desk. “Stricter boundaries. Effective immediately.”
Sabrina read it once.
Then again.
No one-on-one conversations in public spaces.All check-ins within scheduled supervised hours.No travel tunnel proximity without staff present.Documented session start and end times.Door-open rule emphasized.Witness presence encouraged.
It was clean.
It was suffocating.
Sabrina nodded. “Understood.”
Dr. Waller’s tone softened by one degree. “I know you’re trying to do good work. But you cannot be perceived as close.”
Sabrina swallowed the frustration and made it usable. “Then I won’t be.”
She left the office and walked straight to Coach Price.
Coach Price listened, eyes narrowed, then nodded once. “Fine. We’ll make it work.”
Sabrina didn’t go looking for Max.
She didn’t need to.
He found her, like gravity.
In the performance hallway, he stopped two feet away and stared at her like she’d personally shut off the lights.
“You’re not walking with me,” he said.
Sabrina kept her voice calm. “Not alone.”
Max’s jaw flexed. “So what, I’m radioactive now.”
Sabrina didn’t rise to it. “You’re visible. There’s a difference.”
Max stared at her, eyes sharp. “This is because of that stupid post.”
“It’s because of my internship,” Sabrina replied. “And your eligibility. And Brightline. And every adult in the room who thinks optics are more important than reality.”
Max’s expression flickered—anger, then something underneath it. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.
Sabrina didn’t let it become a moment.
She stepped back half a pace, creating space on purpose. “Scheduled check-in. Today. Two o’clock. Coach Price will be in the building.”
Max went still.
Then he nodded once, tight. “Fine.”
The distance started immediately.
No tunnel walks. No quiet side-by-side resets. No low sentences that felt like ropes.
Max’s play got sharper.
It also got meaner.
He clipped into tackles harder. He pressed defenders like he wanted to make them regret existing. He scored in scrimmage and didn’t celebrate.
He played like control had turned into a weapon.
Coach Price watched from midfield with her arms crossed, mouth set.
After practice, she called him in with one sharp gesture.
Max stood in front of her, breathing hard, eyes still hot.
Coach Price didn’t yell.
She just said, “Your control is turning into armor.”
Max blinked, thrown off by the accuracy.
Coach Price held his gaze. “Armor keeps you safe. It also keeps you alone.”
Max’s mouth opened like he had a comeback.
Nothing came out.
Sabrina stood a few steps away, clipboard in hand, posture professional, heart not.
Max’s eyes flicked to her—fast, almost angry.
Not at her.
At the distance.
Then he looked away, jaw tight, like he was swallowing something that wouldn’t go down easy.
And Sabrina wrote one simple note on her paper, clean and clinical, while her pulse argued with her:
Distance is protecting us. Distance is also costing him.