Invisible To My Sister's Brother In Law

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.