7. Olivia
Olivia
I pushed through the side exit into cold that hit like a slap. My shoulders sagged the second the door clicked shut behind me.
One week down.
The thought felt too big to hold. Like if I examined it too closely, it might dissolve, prove itself false, reveal that none of this had actually happened.
But it had.
I'd survived five shifts. Learned the espresso machine without scalding myself again.
Memorized which players wanted foam and which ones acted like you'd insulted their mothers if you dared add any.
Started recognizing faces—Ben's easy grin, Jenna's perpetual exhaustion, the way certain coaches moved through the building like they owned the air itself.
My feet ached. My lower back throbbed from hours standing on concrete. The smell of burned coffee clung to my hair and clothes no matter how many times I washed the apron.
I loved it.
Every sore muscle, every coffee stain, every moment of controlled chaos proved the same thing: I'd done it. Left. Started over. Built something that belonged only to me.
Not getting fired still felt like a miracle I didn't deserve.
The memory of Rhys's office made my stomach flip—his unreadable expression, the careful way he'd told me accidents happened, the silence that felt heavier than any lecture. I'd walked out of that room convinced I'd blown everything on day one.
But I hadn't.
I'd learned. Adapted. Got faster at taking orders, smoother with the register, better at reading when someone wanted conversation versus when they just wanted their drink and their space.
I can do this.
The parking lot stretched before me, mostly empty now, my beat-up sedan waiting three rows back. I dug keys from my pocket and started walking, boots scuffing against asphalt still damp from afternoon rain.
Tomorrow loomed large in my mind. My first game shift. Jenna had warned me—controlled chaos became actual chaos when the arena filled with fans. Lines out the door, players moving faster, everyone wanting everything now.
Nervous energy sparked through my exhaustion. Not the panicked kind that made my hands shake, but something sharper. Anticipation mixed with dread mixed with determination.
I'd survived this week. I could survive tomorrow.
One foot in front of the other. Same as always.
I reached my car and paused, key halfway to the lock.
The parking lot felt too quiet. Too still.
I barely made it through unlocking my apartment door before curiosity dragged me toward my laptop.
Just look. Just see who he was.
The screen glowed blue in the dimness of my living room. I didn't even bother turning on the lights, just curled onto the thrift-store couch with the computer balanced on my knees and typed: Rhys Ackerman hockey career.
The results loaded.
My breath caught.
Photos filled the screen—younger versions of the man I'd spilled coffee on, transformed into something fierce and untouchable.
Dark hair shorter then, jaw sharper, eyes blazing with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
He wore different jerseys in different shots, but the energy radiating from each image stayed consistent: dangerous.
Headlines scrolled past.
Ackerman Racks Up Record Penalty Minutes in Playoff Brawl
"The Eraser" Protects Star Forward in Brutal Third Period Fight
Respected Enforcer Retires After Decade of Grit and Loyalty
I clicked through articles, skimming paragraphs about his reputation. How opposing teams feared him. How his own teammates trusted him completely. How he'd fought to protect players who couldn't protect themselves, absorbed hits meant for others, made himself a target so star forwards could score.
He used to be terrifying.
The man in these photos looked nothing like the quiet, exhausted coach who'd told me accidents happened. That version seemed worn down, hollowed out, stripped of the fire burning through every highlight reel image.
But underneath—buried deep—I recognized the same controlled stillness. The same watchful calculation.
Why would a man like that help me?
The question lodged in my throat. He'd been nobody's savior, according to these articles. He'd been a weapon. A shield. Someone paid to hurt people when necessary.
He didn't owe me anything back then.
I found a highlight clip embedded in a sports blog and clicked play before I could stop myself.
The ice looked pristine until Rhys exploded across it—all brutal efficiency and calculated violence.
He slammed an opposing player into the boards so hard the glass shook.
Dropped gloves without hesitation when someone went after his goalie.
Moved with lethal precision, every punch landing exactly where he intended.
My pulse hammered.
Why didn't he say anything when he recognized me now?
The video ended. I sat frozen, staring at the paused frame of Rhys's younger face twisted in protective fury.
Something warm and confusing unfurled in my chest—awe mixed with fear mixed with gratitude I didn't know how to process.
He'd been that man. And he'd saved me, anyway.
My phone buzzed against the couch cushion.
I flinched—stupid instinct I couldn't shake—and grabbed it with fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
Marsha Klein lit up the screen.
My stomach dropped before I even read the preview.
Hey sweetheart, need to see you. Important.
A second message followed immediately.
Tonight, if possible.
The laptop slid off my knees. I barely caught it before it hit the floor.
Marsha never texted like that. Never used words like "important" or "tonight if possible" unless something had gone catastrophically wrong. She knew better than anyone how those phrases landed on people like me—sharp and cold, instant panic triggers we couldn't control.
Which meant whatever this was, it couldn't wait for her usual careful approach.
No.
I stared at the messages until the screen blurred.
Not now. Not when I'm finally—
My hands shook. I set the phone facedown on the couch and pressed both palms against my thighs, trying to breathe through the tightness crushing my ribs.
Marsha had been there when they pulled me out. Had sat beside me in hospital waiting rooms and court hearings, and foster placements that never stuck. Had advocated when caseworkers cycled through and forgot my name. Had believed me when no one else did.
If she needed to see me tonight, something bad had surfaced. Something from before. Something I thought I'd finally escaped.
One week. I'd made it one week believing I could start over.
The apartment felt smaller suddenly. Walls pressing closer. Shadows deepening in corners I'd convinced myself were safe.
I picked up my phone again.
Sure.
I typed up my address and hit send before fear could stop me.
The knock came forty-three minutes later.
I knew because I'd watched every second tick past on my phone, counting breaths, trying to convince my pulse to slow down.
I opened the door.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Marsha stood in the hallway with that same warm smile I'd known since I was eight—soft around the edges, carrying weight that never quite showed on her face.
Gray streaked through dark hair she kept pulled back in a practical bun.
Laugh lines framed brown eyes that had seen too much, but somehow stayed kind.
Relief crashed through my chest.
"Hi."
She pulled me into a hug before I finished the word. Solid, grounding, the kind that said you're safe without needing to speak it aloud. I melted into her shoulder for three heartbeats before remembering to breathe.
"Look at you," Marsha murmured, pulling back to study my face. "You look good, Liv. Really good."
Heat crept up my neck. "I'm trying."
"You're succeeding." She stepped inside, gaze sweeping the small space with the practiced assessment of someone who'd walked through hundreds of living situations and knew what mattered. "This is yours?"
"Yeah." Pride crept into my voice despite everything. "All mine."
"It's perfect." Marsha moved toward the kitchen nook, fingers trailing along the secondhand table I'd scrubbed three times before bringing home. "Small but safe. Organized. You did this yourself?"
I nodded.
"Hard-earned." She turned back, eyes bright with something that looked dangerously close to tears. "I'm proud of you."
My throat tightened. "I got a job."
"I heard." Marsha settled onto the couch, patting the cushion beside her. "Café at the hockey arena, right? Steady paycheck?"
"Yeah." I perched on the edge, hands knotted in my lap. "Five days a week. Benefits after ninety days."
"That's huge, sweetheart." She reached over, squeezed my knee once. "You've grown so much. I remember when keeping a shift at the grocery store felt impossible, and now look—you're building something real."
The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. This was Marsha. The woman who'd advocated for me when case workers gave up. Who'd shown up to every court date. Who'd answered phone calls at three in the morning when nightmares made breathing impossible.
The closest thing I had to family.
Which meant whatever came next, I could survive it.
Marsha's expression shifted. Still gentle, but something grim settled into the lines around her mouth. The warmth in her eyes dimmed, replaced by the careful neutrality she wore in courtrooms.
"Liv." She leaned forward slightly, hands folded between her knees. "I need you to listen to me, okay? I need you to stay calm."
My heart stopped. "What happened?"
She drew a slow breath. Let it out even slower. "Your father is being released."
The world dropped out. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. It actually dropped—floor tilting sideways, walls receding, everything familiar twisting into something unrecognizable and hostile.
I went still. Completely, utterly still. Cold flooded through my veins like someone had replaced my blood with ice water. My lungs forgot how to expand. Breath came in shallow, insufficient gasps that didn't reach deep enough to matter.
"No."
The word came out barely audible. Cracked and small.