6. Rhys #2
Not café staff either. Jenna wore her ponytail high and sharp. Ben moved with that easy college-kid energy. This man stood perfectly still, angled just enough to have a clear line of sight into the café. Into where Olivia worked.
My muscles locked tight, tension flooding through my shoulders and down my spine like ice water. Something primitive and protective slammed through my chest—sharp, immediate, bypassing every rational thought.
The man wore jeans and a gray jacket. Baseball cap pulled low.
Hands in his pockets. Everything about him screamed deliberate anonymity.
The kind of outfit designed to be forgotten the second you looked away.
Nobody dressed like that belonged in a professional hockey facility.
Nobody stood in that corner watching the café unless they had a reason.
I stepped forward before the decision fully formed. Shoulders squared. Jaw locked. Every line of my body shifted into something harder, sharper. The same stance I'd used breaking up fights on the ice, the same energy I'd carried as an enforcer—controlled violence barely leashed.
The man's head turned. Our eyes met across twenty feet of hallway. His expression flickered—surprise, maybe recognition, definitely calculation. He registered my presence, my posture, the threat I presented just by existing in his space.
Then he looked away. Too quickly. Too deliberately casual.
He turned and disappeared down the connecting hallway toward the main entrance, movements unhurried but purposeful. Gone in seconds like he'd never been there at all.
I stood frozen, staring at the empty corridor where he'd vanished.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. Adrenaline sang through my veins, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. That the wrongness had a shape and a face and had just walked away wearing generic clothes and a forgettable expression.
I knew that feeling. Recognized it bone-deep from years of reading opponents, anticipating violence before it erupted, sensing danger in the shift of weight or the angle of shoulders.
That man had been watching her. And he'd left the second I noticed.
I turned back toward the café, jaw clenched hard enough my teeth ached.
Olivia still stood behind the counter, completely unaware. She'd moved on to restocking cups, reaching up to slide sleeves into the overhead dispenser. The afternoon light caught her profile—focused, calm, safe inside the bubble of routine work.
She had no idea someone had been watching. No idea I'd just chased off... what? A threat? A stalker? Some random guy who'd gotten lost looking for the main office?
I should go inside.
The thought formed clear and insistent. Walk through those doors. Check on her. Ask if she's noticed anyone strange hanging around. Make sure she gets home safe.
Walk her to her car myself if necessary.
My feet didn't move. Because going inside meant crossing a line I'd spent fifteen years refusing to cross. Meant acknowledging that I cared about her safety in ways that went beyond professional responsibility or distant concern. Meant admitting I was already too involved.
She doesn't need you.
The words echoed cold and rational in my head, warring with instinct.
She had Jenna. Had Ben. Had whatever support system she'd built for herself in this new life she'd clearly trying to start. Getting involved would only complicate things. It would make her uncomfortable. Would turn me into exactly the kind of overbearing presence she probably moved here to escape.
This is exactly why I should stay away.
Every reason made sense. Every justification landed solid.
But my shoulders stayed tense, and my jaw stayed locked, and the protective fury burning through my chest didn't diminish even slightly.
I forced myself to turn. To push through the parking lot doors. To walk to my truck with measured steps that felt like dragging dead weight.
The engine turned over with a growl. I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring at the building's side entrance.
The man's face replayed in my mind—forgettable features, careful posture, the way he'd tracked her movements with focused attention.
Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.
But my gut told a different story.
And I'd learned decades ago never to ignore my gut.
I pulled out of the parking spot but didn't drive away. Circled around to where I could see the café's front entrance. Parked in a spot with clear sightlines. Told myself I'd just wait until her shift ended. Make sure she got to her car safely. Then I'd leave. Stay distant like I should.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
This is a problem.
The parking garage swallowed me whole—concrete and shadows and the smell of motor oil thick enough to taste. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty space.
Pain shot through my jaw.
I stopped walking, hand halfway to my pocket for keys, and forced my mouth open. Rolled my jaw once, twice. The ache spread from my temples down through my neck—muscles locked so tight they'd probably been grinding for the last hour without me noticing.
Get it together.
My truck sat three spots away, dusty and ordinary and exactly where I'd left it that morning. Before the café. Before her. Before everything tilted sideways.
I unlocked it. Climbed in. Pulled the door shut with more force than necessary.
Then I sat.
Hands on my thighs. Keys dangling from my fingers. Engine silent.
The steering wheel stared back at me—worn leather wrapped around metal, cracked in places from years of use. I'd gripped this wheel through blizzards and summer heat, through wins and losses, through every day of the carefully controlled life I'd built.
I knew every crack in the leather. Every worn spot where my thumbs rested. Right now it looked foreign. Distant. Like something from someone else's life.
You're not just failing to forget her.
The thought landed heavy, undeniable.
You're noticing threats.
The man in the hallway. His posture. His focus. The way he'd disappeared the second I stepped forward. Everything about that moment had triggered instincts I'd honed over decades—the ability to read violence before it erupted, to sense danger in the angle of shoulders or the shift of weight.
You're reacting.
I'd snapped at my team in the locker room. Lost focus during practice. Stood in that hallway ready to put hands on a stranger for the crime of watching a girl through glass.
A girl I had no claim to. No right to protect. No business thinking about at all.
You're slipping.
My knuckles went white around the keys.
I'd spent fifteen years building distance. Maintaining control. Keeping everyone at arm's length because closeness meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant losing the only thing I still had—my ability to function.
One morning with Olivia Bennett and the walls were cracking.
I couldn't afford that.
Couldn't.
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed, breath shallow.
The smart move was obvious: avoid the café, ignore her existence, let her build whatever life she needed without my ghosts dragging her backward.
My hand tightened until the keys bit into my palm. But the man's face wouldn't leave my head.