19. Olivia
Olivia
I stayed frozen against the wall long after the sound of his footsteps faded. Long after the emergency exit door clicked shut. Long after the silence swallowed every trace he'd existed in this hallway at all.
My wrists tingled where his hands had pinned them.
The ghost of his grip burned into my skin like a brand I couldn't scrub away.
My lips felt swollen, tender, every nerve ending still firing with the memory of his mouth claiming mine like he'd been starving for it. Like I mattered. Like he meant it.
Then reality crashed down with the weight of a collapsing building.
He left.
Again.
The pattern carved itself deeper. Touch me like I was everything. Walk away like I was nothing. Leave me wrecked and gasping while he fled like touching me disgusted him.
Tears burned hot behind my eyes. I tried to swallow them back, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. My throat closed around the sob building in my chest. I refused to give him that. Refused to break where he might somehow know.
My legs gave out.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, knees pulled to my chest, forehead pressed against my arms. The first tear escaped. Then another. Silent. Furious. Humiliating.
I hated this. Hated him for making me want something I couldn't have. Hated myself more for still wanting him after he proved—twice now—that whatever this was terrified him enough to run.
My fingers dug into my arms. Nails biting crescents into skin. The pain grounded me. Reminded me I was real even when he treated me like something temporary. Forgettable.
A mistake.
The word echoed in my skull. His voice. Cold. Detached. It was a mistake.
But his hands had trembled when he touched me. His breath had caught. His eyes had gone dark and desperate before he kissed me like drowning men needed air.
That wasn't regret. That was fear.
Another tear slipped free. I wiped it away angrily, smearing moisture across my cheek. Done. I was done pretending this didn't shred me. Done pretending I could handle his push and pull. Done waiting for him to decide I was worth the risk.
I pulled my knees tighter. Let the tears come. Quiet. Bitter. Mourning something that never had the chance to exist.
The memory looped mercilessly. His hands catching my wrists. The shocking strength as he pinned them above my head—not rough, never rough, but absolute. The wall cold against my spine. His forehead dropping to mine like he couldn't bear the distance between us for one more second.
Then his mouth.
God, his mouth.
Desperate. Consuming. Like he'd been holding back for weeks and the dam finally shattered. His grip had tightened when I arched into him, when I made that small sound against his lips that I'd die before admitting I made.
He'd kissed me like I mattered. Like he'd been drowning without me.
Then he ripped himself away like touching me burned.
My stomach twisted viciously. The whiplash between his hunger and his retreat carved me hollow. My mind spun in sickening circles, chasing answers that didn't exist.
He wants me.
The evidence branded itself into my bones. The tremor in his hands. The ragged edge to his breathing. The way he'd looked at me before he kissed me—raw, unguarded, terrified.
He regrets it.
He said the words himself. Called us a mistake. Walked away twice now like staying near me was unbearable.
He can't look at me.
Days of avoidance. Turning corners when he saw me ahead. Sending other coaches instead of coming himself. Treating me like a ghost he refused to acknowledge.
He kissed me again.
Tonight. Minutes ago. Pinned me to this very wall and kissed me like he'd die if he didn't.
He left me again.
The pattern screamed louder than any words. Want. Panic. Flee. Repeat until I shattered completely.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spinning. Trying to force logic through the emotional wreckage. Nothing made sense. Nothing aligned. He wanted me and hated himself for it. Kissed me and ran. Looked at me like I was everything and treated me like I was nothing.
And I hated—hated—that my heart kept choosing him, anyway. Hated that even now, crumpled on this floor with tears streaking my face, some pathetic part of me hoped he'd come back. Hoped he'd stop running. Hoped I'd be worth staying for.
But hope was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. Rough. Angry. Done crying over a man who couldn't decide if I was worth the risk.
Deep breath. In. Out. The air burned my lungs, but I forced it anyway. Again. Slower this time. Steadier.
My legs shook when I pushed myself up, but I stood anyway. Straightened my shirt. Smoothed my hair with trembling fingers. The motion felt mechanical, but it gave me something to focus on besides the ache carving through my chest.
I wasn't doing this anymore.
"I'm not playing this game," I whispered to the empty hallway. The words tasted bitter. True.
If Rhys wanted to avoid me, that was his problem. His choice. His cowardice. Not mine.
I wasn't quitting my job. Not for him. Not for anyone. I'd clawed my way into this position, survived my first chaotic weeks, earned my place here. He didn't get to take that from me just because he couldn't handle whatever this was between us.
I wasn't hiding. Wasn't shrinking into corners or changing my routes or tiptoeing around his schedule. This arena was as much mine as his now. He'd have to deal with seeing me.
And I wasn't waiting. Not anymore. Not for him to decide I mattered. Not for him to stop running. Not for him to wake up one morning and realize he wanted me enough to actually stay.
Ben had asked me to dinner. Kind, normal, uncomplicated Ben who smiled at me without flinching. Who talked to me without looking like touching me terrified him.
Tomorrow. I'd tell Ben yes tomorrow.
The decision settled over me with cold finality as I grabbed my sweater from the floor—the one Rhys had been holding like it burned him—and headed for the exit.
The night air hit me like a slap. Sharp. Biting. I welcomed it. Let the cold sink through my jacket and into my bones until the numbness spread everywhere the tears had been.
My breath formed clouds in the darkness as I walked toward the bus stop. Each step felt deliberate. Purposeful. Like I was walking away from more than just the arena.
I wasn't going to break over Rhys Ackerman. Wasn't going to let his fear dictate my choices anymore. He'd made his decision every time he turned away, every time he fled after touching me like I was everything.
So I'd make mine.
Ben was safe. Normal. He didn't look at me like wanting me was a crime. Didn't kiss me like drowning and then vanish like I'd poisoned him.
Tomorrow I'd say yes.
Tonight I'd survive.
The determination hardened in my chest as the bus rumbled closer, headlights cutting through the dark.
I'd be fine.
I had to be.
I woke before my alarm, staring at the ceiling with gritty eyes and a hollow chest. The emotional bruising hadn't faded overnight—every breath still carried the weight of last night's tears—but something had shifted. Hardened.
I dragged myself out of bed. Showered until the water ran cold. Dressed in clean clothes that didn't smell like coffee and desperation. The girl in the mirror looked tired, shadows pooled beneath her eyes, but her jaw was set. Determined.
Good enough.
I caught the early bus, the one that arrived forty minutes before my shift started. The city was still half-asleep, streetlights flickering off as dawn bled gray and pale across the horizon. I welcomed the quiet. The space to think without interference.
The arena loomed ahead, all concrete and glass catching the weak morning light. My stomach clenched reflexively—muscle memory of fear, of wondering if I'd see him—but I pushed through the doors, anyway.
The café smelled like stale coffee grounds and cleaning solution. Empty. Perfect.
I flipped on the lights, tied my apron, started the machines without being asked. The familiar routine settled over me like armor. Grind beans. Fill water tanks. Stock cups. Wipe counters. Simple tasks that didn't require thinking about dark eyes or trembling hands or kisses that burned.
"You're early."
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. Jenna stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised, travel mug in hand.
"Couldn't sleep," I said. Truth, mostly.
She studied me with the sharp assessment of someone who'd survived worse than bad shifts and difficult men. Her gaze lingered on the shadows under my eyes, the tight set of my shoulders, the way I gripped the counter like it might steady me.
"Long night?" Not quite a question.
"Something like that."
Jenna nodded slowly, accepting the deflection without pushing. "Well, you look like hell, but the machines are already running, so I'll take it." She moved behind the counter, shoulder brushing mine in something almost like solidarity. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She poured two cups. Black, bitter, scalding. I wrapped my hands around the warmth and breathed.
"Whatever it is," Jenna said quietly, not looking at me, "don't let it make you quit. You're good at this. Better than you think."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. I swallowed hard. "Thanks."
She shrugged, already moving toward the register. "Just don't make me train another newbie. You're less annoying than most."
High praise from Jenna.
I smiled despite everything. Small, crooked, but real.
The morning rush hit like a tidal wave, and I threw myself into it with something close to relief.
Orders poured in—black coffee, cappuccino, double shot espresso, oat milk latte with an extra pump of vanilla.
My hands moved automatically now, muscle memory replacing the fumbling panic of my first week.
I didn't hesitate reaching for cups anymore.
Didn't second-guess the milk ratios. Didn't freeze when three players shouted orders simultaneously.
"Large black, two sugars."
"Got it." Cup. Coffee. Sugar packets. Lid. Done. Next.