14. Rhys
Rhys
The door slammed harder than I meant it to. The sound echoed down the hallway—sharp, final, drawing attention I didn't want.
I didn't care.
I crossed to the desk in three strides, hands braced against the edge, head down, breathing through the burn in my chest that had nothing to do with exertion.
Ben's laugh still rang in my ears. Easy. Warm. The kind of uncomplicated joy I'd stopped being capable of years ago.
And she'd laughed back. Smiled at him like he was safe. Like he was normal. Like he was someone worth leaning into.
My jaw ached from clenching. The image burned behind my eyelids—her elbow brushing his, the flush in her cheeks when he teased her, the way her whole body relaxed in his presence.
She's not yours.
I knew that. Of course, I knew that.
She's allowed to talk to anyone.
She should talk to guys like Ben. Clean-cut. Kind. Age-appropriate. Someone who didn't carry the weight of a thousand mistakes and a past soaked in violence. Someone who wouldn't ruin her.
She's a kid compared to you.
The thought twisted like a blade between my ribs. She wasn't a kid—not anymore—but the gap between us yawned wide and unforgiving. Too many years. Too much damage on my side. Too much innocence left on hers, however buried.
Get your shit together.
But the anger didn't fade. It sat heavy in my gut, primal and irrational and completely beyond my control.
Because beneath it—beneath the jealousy and the territorial instinct I had no right to—was something worse.
Fear.
Fear that she'd trust the wrong person. That someone would hurt her.
That I wouldn't be there to stop it. That the shadows I'd seen gathering around her would close in before I could do a damn thing about it.
Fear that she'd never look at me the way she looked at Ben—open, unguarded, without the weight of our shared history pressing down between us.
And beneath even that, a truth I didn't want to face: I wanted her to look at me that way. Wanted her to smile like that for me. Wanted to be the one who made her laugh, who eased the tension from her shoulders, who she leaned toward instead of away from.
I wanted what I had no business wanting.
I straightened, dragging both hands through my hair, exhaling hard.
This was a problem. A serious problem. And I had absolutely no idea how to fix it.
The anger drained out of me all at once, replaced by something colder.
I replayed the morning in my head—not the moment with Ben, but before that. The way she'd flinched when Maddox's voice boomed across the café. The way her eyes tracked the door every time it opened. The stiffness in her shoulders that never quite eased, even when she smiled.
She'd been scanning exits. Checking escape routes. Positioning herself with her back to the wall whenever possible.
Those weren't the habits of someone adjusting to a new job. Those were survival instincts. The kind you learned when the world taught you early that safety was conditional and danger wore familiar faces.
I'd seen it before. In the mirror. In teammates who'd grown up the hard way. In the eyes of people who'd been hurt too many times to trust easily.
And I'd seen it in her—years ago, when I pulled her out of that apartment.
My stomach turned over, slow and sick. Something was wrong. Not just nerves. Not just first-week jitters.
Something was hunting her.
I didn't know what. Didn't know who. But every instinct I'd honed over decades of reading threats screamed that she was in danger.
And she wasn't telling anyone.
Of course she wasn't. People like her—people like us—we didn't ask for help. We handled it alone. We kept our heads down and survived, however we could.
But she was too young for that. Too small. Too alone.
I shoved away from the desk, pacing the narrow strip of floor between the wall and the shelves. My pulse kicked up again, but this time it wasn't jealousy.
It was dread.
She needed protection. Real protection. Not some part-time barista who made her laugh. She needed someone who knew how to watch for danger. Someone willing to get his hands dirty if necessary.
She needed me.
Whether she wanted me there or not.
I pulled up the game footage on my laptop; the familiar blue-and-white jerseys filling the screen. Power play formations. Defensive breakdowns. Neutral zone transitions I needed to dissect before tomorrow's practice.
The video played. Lines moved. Pucks ricocheted off boards.
I didn't see any of it.
My eyes tracked the motion, but my brain registered nothing. The screen blurred. Reset. I rewound the same thirty seconds three times without absorbing a single detail.
Focus.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, willing myself to concentrate.
The door rattled—three sharp knocks.
"Yeah," I called out, not looking up.
Andrew Crown stuck his head in, easy grin already forming. "Hey, Coach. Got a second? Wanted to ask about—"
"Not now."
The words came out harsher than I intended. Sharper. Cold enough that Andrew's smile faltered.
"Oh. Uh, sure. Later then—"
"I said not now."
Silence.
Then the door clicked shut. Footsteps retreated down the hall.
I exhaled hard, dragging both hands down my face. Andrew didn't deserve that. He'd done nothing wrong except exist at the wrong moment.
Get it together.
I tried to refocus on the screen. Maddox's line change. Sloppy timing. Wyatt's defensive coverage—too aggressive, leaving gaps. Things I should've been cataloging, noting, preparing to correct.
Instead, all I could see was Olivia's hand brushing Ben's arm. Her laugh. The way her guard dropped around him.
The way it never dropped around me.
Another knock.
"What." Flat. Unfriendly.
The door opened anyway. Coach Barrett leaned against the frame, arms crossed, studying me with that patient, assessing look that made players confess before he even asked the question.
"You good?"
"Fine."
"Crown just left looking like you bit his head off."
I didn't answer.
Barrett stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn't sit. Just stood there, waiting.
"I'm fine," I repeated.
"You've been wound tight all week. Distracted during practice. Snapping at players. That's not you." He paused. "What's going on?"
Everything.
Nothing I can explain.
A girl I have no right to think about is unraveling every ounce of control I've built.
"Just tired," I said instead.
Barrett's expression didn't change. He knew I was lying. I knew he knew. Neither of us acknowledged it.
"Take tonight off," he said finally. "Get some sleep. Clear your head. We need you sharp tomorrow."
I nodded. Waited until he left. Then stared at the frozen frame on my screen—Maddox mid-stride, stick angled wrong, shoulders too high.
I couldn't afford distractions. Not in this job. Not with this team depending on me.
My entire life was built on discipline. Control. Keeping emotions locked down so tight they couldn't interfere with what mattered.
And she was dismantling all of it without even trying.
She was safer if I stayed away. Safer if I kept my distance and let her live her life without the weight of my past, my darkness, my inability to be anything other than what I was.
But something was wrong. I'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she moved, in the fear she tried so hard to hide.
And she wasn't telling anyone.
I closed the laptop. Sat in the silence of my office, listening to the hum of the overhead lights.
I couldn't ignore that last part. Couldn't walk away knowing she was in danger. Even if staying close destroyed me.
I grabbed my jacket and left before anyone could ask where I was going.
The hallway stretched empty and silent. Most of the staff had already cleared out. Good. I needed this done quickly, quietly, without raising questions I didn't want to answer.
The front desk sat tucked near the main entrance—fluorescent lights humming overhead, security monitors flickering through their rotation. Janet worked the evening shift, organizing paperwork with methodical precision.
She glanced up when I approached. "Coach Ackerman. Thought you'd left already."
"Need to pull some employee files," I said, keeping my voice level. Professional. "Safety and emergency contact updates."
Her brow lifted slightly, but she didn't hesitate. "Sure thing. Which department?"
"Café staff."
She turned to her computer, fingers clicking across the keyboard. "All of them, or specific names?"
"Olivia Bennett."
Something flickered across Janet's expression—curiosity, maybe—but years of working security had taught her when not to ask questions. She pulled up the file, printed it without comment, and handed me the single sheet.
"Need anything else?"
"No. Thanks."
I turned away before she could study my face too closely. Walked back down the corridor with deliberate, measured steps. Didn't look at the paper until I reached my office.
The door clicked shut behind me. I unfolded the page.
Name: Olivia Bennett
Position: Barista
Emergency Contact: Marsha Klein (Social Worker)
My eyes tracked down to the address.
And I went still.
2847 Lexington Avenue, Apartment 3C
The air left my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale that did nothing to ease the pressure building in my chest.
I knew that neighborhood. Everyone in the city knew that neighborhood. Crime reports flooded the local news every other week—break-ins, assaults, drug activity. The kind of place where landlords didn't fix locks and nobody called the cops because half the time they didn't show up, anyway.
Too far from the rink to walk safely at night. Too isolated. Too dangerous for anyone, let alone someone her size, her age, with her history.
She lived there.
Alone.