8. Rhys #2
"I think so." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Still learning where everything is. And Jenna's been patient, even when I mess up."
"You're doing fine."
Her eyes widened slightly, like the compliment surprised her.
When was the last time someone told her she was doing well?
The thought sat heavy and bitter on my tongue.
"Thank you." Softer now. Sincere. "That—actually helps."
Silence stretched between us, but different from before. Less suffocating. Almost comfortable.
This is dangerous.
The realization hit sharp and clear. Because I didn't hate this. Didn't hate the way her guard lowered when I kept my voice steady and calm. Didn't hate the glimpses of who she might be underneath all that fear and exhaustion.
I should walk away. Should take my coffee and leave before this became something neither of us could take back.
Instead, I stood there like an idiot, searching for another safe topic just to hear her voice again.
You're in trouble.
The words are you okay climbed halfway up my throat before I choked them back down. Because I had no right to ask.
She glanced toward the door again. Third time in as many minutes. Quick, nervous movements that sent her ponytail swinging against her shoulders.
Something tightened in my gut.
Her fingers found the hem of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. Restless energy that didn't match the careful stillness she tried to project everywhere else.
"I should probably—" She gestured vaguely toward the espresso machine. "Get back to work. Before the morning rush hits."
The smile she offered flickered like a candle in the wind. There and gone. Fragile.
"Right." I lifted my cup slightly. "Thanks for the coffee."
She nodded, already turning away. Dismissed me with the ease of someone who'd perfected the art of ending conversations without causing offense.
Smart girl.
But that shadow under her eyes—darker than yesterday, deeper—sat wrong in my chest. Carved itself into my awareness and refused to leave.
Something's wrong.
The thought pounded insistent rhythm against my skull.
Yesterday she'd been nervous. Apologetic. Getting used to her new job.
Today she looked hunted.
My hand tightened around the cup. Heat seeped through the cardboard, almost uncomfortable, but I didn't put it down.
Ask her.
The impulse roared through me—loud, demanding, impossible to ignore completely.
Just three words. Simple. Direct.
Are you okay?
But my jaw stayed locked. Because what would happen if I asked?
She'd lie. Tell me everything was fine with that same brittle smile. Or worse—she'd tell me the truth, and then what? Then I'd be involved. Then I'd have information I couldn't unknow. Problems I'd feel compelled to fix. Then I'd be exactly what I'd spent years avoiding: attached.
My throat worked. Swallowed nothing.
Not your business.
The reminder came sharp and cold, but it didn't stop the warning bells screaming through my instincts—the ones that used to keep me alive during games when enforcers twice my size wanted my head.
The ones that never lied.
She wiped the counter in quick, efficient strokes, keeping her back to me. Shoulders curved inward like she was bracing for impact.
Damn it.
I should leave. Should walk away before this became something I couldn't take back. Before protective instinct transformed into something messier, more dangerous.
Before I crossed lines I'd drawn specifically to keep people like her safe from men like me.
But my feet stayed planted.
Olivia glanced toward the door again. Her hand stilled mid-wipe, fingers pressing white against the rag. Watching. Waiting.
Afraid.
The word crystallized with brutal clarity.
She wasn't just tired. Wasn't just stressed about the new job or nervous about working her first game.
She was scared.
Of what, I didn't know. Didn't need to know.
Shouldn't want to know.
But I did.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to do something—say something, fix whatever put that look in her eyes.
Instead, I forced my shoulders to loosen. My expression to flatten into something neutral and unthreatening.
I turned toward the door before she could say anything. Before I could change my mind. Before I could do something stupid like promise her safety I had no business promising.
The cold air outside hit, but it didn't clear my head the way I needed it to.
This is a problem.
I walked faster, cutting through the main concourse toward the staff entrance. Coffee burned against my palm through the cup, but I didn't loosen my grip.
The coach's locker room sat at the end of a quiet hallway—gray walls, fluorescent lighting, the smell of old leather and disinfectant. I shouldered through the door and let it swing shut behind me with a muted thud.
Silence wrapped around me like a blanket.
Good.
I set the coffee on the bench and yanked my jacket off, movements sharper than necessary. Hung it in my locker. Stared at the empty space for three seconds too long.
Get it together.
I stripped off my hoodie and reached for my practice gear, forcing my mind toward tonight's game plan. Boston's power play. Their new defensive pairings. Breakout patterns we needed to shut down.
But Olivia's face kept sliding back into focus—those dark circles, that brittle smile, the way she'd watched the door like something might burst through it any second.
Not your business.
I laced my skates tighter than necessary and tried to believe it.