Rhys
The final buzzer cut through the arena noise like a blade. Win or loss—I'd stopped caring somewhere between the second period and now. The scoreboard numbers blurred into irrelevance. My job was done. Lines managed. Players positioned. Coach Barrett's nod of approval barely registered.
I moved through the post-game routine on autopilot. Handshakes with the other coaches. Brief comments to players filtering past. The usual chaos of bodies and equipment and adrenaline slowly draining from the rink.
My feet carried me toward the café before I'd consciously decided to go.
Just checking in. Making sure the closing shift was handling the crowd. Normal assistant coach responsibilities. Nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with the way I'd left marks on her throat last night or the sound she'd made when I'd—
I shut that line of thought down hard.
The café came into view through the corridor windows. Still packed with lingering fans, the line stretching halfway to the concessions. Jenna worked the register with practiced efficiency. Ben moved between the espresso machine and the pickup counter, expression tight but focused.
My gaze swept the space once. Twice.
She wasn't there.
The wrongness hit before my brain caught up to what I was seeing. Some primal part of my nervous system registered her absence like missing a step in the dark—that stomach-dropping sensation of wrongness, of danger, of something fundamentally off.
I stopped walking. Scanned again. Methodically this time. Every corner. Every angle. Behind the counter. Near the storage entrance. By the condiment station.
Nothing.
My pulse kicked up. Slow at first, then faster. A warning drumbeat under my ribs that said pay attention, something's wrong, move.
Jenna hadn't looked up. Ben hadn't either. Both focused on their tasks, managing the rush with the kind of tunnel vision that came from survival mode during game nights.
Neither of them had noticed.
But I had.
My hands flexed once at my sides. Jaw tight. Every instinct I'd honed over years of reading ice—anticipating plays, sensing danger before it materialized—screamed that something had shifted.
She should be here. She wasn't. And that difference meant everything.
I stepped into the café. The crowd had thinned but hadn't cleared—stragglers nursing lukewarm drinks, a few families packing up to leave. The overhead lights felt too bright. Too harsh. Everything sharp-edged and wrong.
Jenna wiped down the counter with mechanical precision. Her shoulders carried tension I recognized—the kind that came from holding it together when you wanted to snap.
Ben slammed a stack of cups into the dispenser. Once. Twice. The third hit rattled loud enough to turn heads.
The vibe was off. Not just busy-shift exhaustion. Something else. Something that made the air feel thin and brittle.
I scanned the room once more. Sharp. Focused. Every corner. Every shadow. Every possible place she could be tucked away, hidden, working quietly out of sight.
Nothing.
"Where is she?" My voice came out flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Jenna's hand paused mid-wipe. She glanced up, confusion flickering across her face before she masked it with professional neutrality. "Who?"
"Olivia."
Ben's entire body went rigid. The cup he'd been holding hit the counter harder than necessary. His head snapped toward me, and something dark crossed his expression—recognition, then anger, fast and hot.
He stared at me for three full seconds. I felt the calculation happening behind his eyes. Felt him connecting dots I hadn't known were visible.
Then his jaw tightened. "So it's you."
I didn't blink. Didn't move. Just watched him with the same cold assessment I used on players who got too aggressive on the ice. "What?"
Ben stepped out from behind the counter. Stupid. Emotional. His hands flexed at his sides like he was considering something monumentally idiotic. "You're the one she's fucking."
The café went quiet. Not all at once—a ripple effect. Conversations dying mid-sentence. Heads turning. The hiss of the espresso machine suddenly too loud in the absence of human noise.
Jenna's mouth opened slightly. Closed. She looked between us like she was watching a car accident in slow motion.
I stood perfectly still. No reaction. No denial. No confirmation. Just cold, lethal silence that made Ben's bravado waver at the edges.
He recovered fast, though. Took another step closer, voice rising. "That's why she broke it off. Because she's already got someone else warming her bed."
My hands didn't move. Didn't clench. But something in my expression must have shifted because Ben stopped advancing. Smart enough to recognize the line he was dancing toward.
"I asked you a question." My voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous than shouting. "Where is Olivia?"
Ben's anger flickered. Uncertainty crept in at the edges. "I don't know. She went on break maybe twenty minutes ago? Said she needed air."
Twenty minutes. Too long. Way too long.
"Where?"
"How the hell should I know?" Ben's defensiveness sounded hollow now. "She didn't exactly give me her itinerary after dumping me in the back hallway."
Back hallway.
The service corridor. Away from crowds. Away from cameras. Away from witnesses.
Everything inside me went cold and sharp.
My jaw locked tight enough to ache. Shoulders squared. Every muscle in my body coiled with restrained violence.
I lowered my voice instead of raising it. Quieter. More deliberate. The kind of tone that made smart men step back. "Watch your mouth."
Ben laughed—short, nervous, the sound of someone who knew they'd crossed a line but couldn't stop themselves. His eyes darted to Jenna, then back to me, looking for backup he wasn't going to find.
"What? You gonna threaten me too?" His bravado cracked at the edges. "She's nineteen, man. You're her boss. That's messed up on like ten different levels."
That word.
Boss.
Like I owned her position. Her paycheck. Her choices. Like she hadn't grabbed my hoodie and kissed me first. Like she hadn't whispered don't let go against my mouth. Like she hadn't crawled into my lap last night and made sounds that would haunt me forever.
My vision sharpened. Narrowed. Everything except Ben's face blurred into background noise.
"You think she's safe with you?" He kept talking. Stupid. Reckless. Operating on wounded pride instead of survival instinct.
I didn't remember deciding.
One second I stood three feet away. The next my fist connected with his jaw—clean, precise, the kind of punch that came from muscle memory and years of knowing exactly how much force to use.
Ben dropped. Hit the tile floor in a graceless heap, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock.
I didn't hit him again. Just stood there, knuckles throbbing faintly, breathing controlled, watching him with the same detached calm I used to watch plays develop on ice.
The café went silent.
Jenna pressed both hands to her mouth. A few customers backed toward the exit. Someone's phone clattered to the floor. The espresso machine hissed into the void.
Ben stared up at me from the ground, hand still covering his jaw, blood trickling from his split lip. Fear replaced anger in his expression—finally smart enough to recognize what he was dealing with.
I didn't look at him again. Turned my back on him completely. Dismissed him like he'd stopped mattering the second he hit the floor.
"Jenna." My voice came out flat. "Back hallway. Which direction?"
She pointed with a shaking hand. "East service corridor. Past the locker rooms."
I was already moving.
Behind me, Ben coughed. Someone helped him sit up. Murmured conversations started filtering back into the space, shocked and scandalized and none of my concern.
My shoes hit the tile in steady rhythm. Not running—running drew attention, caused panic, wasted energy. But fast. Purposeful. Every step eating up distance between me and wherever she'd gone.
The crowd thinned as I left the main concourse. Hallways grew quieter. Dimmer. The kind of spaces maintenance staff used, not fans.
My hand flexed once at my side. Knuckles aching. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes, Ben had said.
Too long for a break. Too long to be out of sight. Too long for the crawling wrongness under my skin to be paranoia.
The service corridor stretched ahead—concrete walls, exposed pipes, emergency lighting casting everything in sickly yellow.
Empty.
I stopped. Listened.
Nothing.
Then—
Voices. Muffled. Around the corner. One low and male. The other—
Her.
I moved.
Long strides. Silent fury. Every instinct I'd spent years honing—reading plays before they developed, sensing violence before it erupted—firing at once.
The hallway lights flickered. Once. Twice. Shadows stretched and contracted against concrete walls.
Too quiet.
I slowed as I approached the corner. Not caution—calculation. My feet made no sound against the floor. Years of moving through hostile territory on ice had taught me how to be a ghost when it mattered.
The voices grew clearer.
"—told you to stay away." Male. Low. Familiar in a way that made my jaw lock tight. "You don't get to decide when we're done."
"Please—" Olivia's voice cracked. Small. Terrified. "Just leave me alone."
Something dark and vicious uncaged itself in my chest.
"You left because of him, didn't you?" The man's tone shifted—bitter, mocking. "Some hockey player with more money than sense. You think he's gonna protect you forever?"
I rounded the corner.
And saw it.
Olivia backed against the wall. Hands pressed flat against concrete like she could push through it and disappear. Face pale. Eyes wide. Every line of her body screaming fear.
A man loomed over her. Older. Weathered. Posture aggressive. One hand braced beside her head, caging her in. The other—
The other reaching for her arm.
Recognition slammed into me with physical force.