Chapter 1 #2
"Assistant coach. Former defenseman." She tossed the rag into a bucket beneath the counter. "Doesn't smile. Doesn't talk. Doesn't tolerate mistakes." A beat of silence. "You'll know him when you see him."
Something cold settled in my chest.
The photograph flashed through my mind—tired eyes, long dark hair, that expression that suggested the world had tried breaking him and he'd simply refused to give it the satisfaction.
"What's his order?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Black coffee. Large. No sugar, no cream, no conversation." Jenna pulled out a laminated sheet covered in handwriting. "Here's the rest of the regular orders. Memorize them by tomorrow."
I took the sheet. My hands didn't shake.
They should have.
Jenna launched into a rapid-fire tutorial of the register system, her fingers flying across the touch screen while she rattled off shortcuts and override codes.
I nodded along, memorizing sequences—iced drinks were under beverages, hot drinks had their own tab, food items lived in a nested menu that required three swipes to access properly.
My own rules scrolled through my head like ticker tape, silent and insistent: Don't draw attention.
I kept my questions minimal, my voice level. Blended into the background like wallpaper. Made myself small and useful and forgettable—exactly the kind of employee who didn't cause problems.
"—and if the card reader goes down, which it does every fucking Thursday, there's a manual imprint machine under the—Bennett, you listening?"
"Under the register. Got it."
The coffee machine hissed behind me. I pivoted before I could stop myself, pulse spiking, shoulders tensing. Just steam. Just the automatic cycle purging lines.
Don't get yelled at.
Jenna hadn't noticed my flinch. She'd already moved on to demonstrating the milk steamer, twisting valves and adjusting temperatures with mechanical precision.
I positioned myself at an angle—close enough to watch her hands, far enough that I could see the door in my peripheral vision. The wall pressed solid against my left shoulder. Exit behind me, twenty paces. Second exit through the storage room, assuming it wasn't locked.
Keep your job. You need it, desperately.
My bank account had two hundred seventeen dollars in it. Rent was due in three weeks. The car needed an oil change I'd been putting off for a month. This job paid minimum wage plus tips, which Jenna had already warned me were "shit during the regular season, slightly less shit during playoffs."
I couldn't afford to screw this up.
"Here." Jenna thrust a pitcher at me. "Practice your foam. Needs to be thick enough to hold a design but thin enough to pour clean."
I took the pitcher. The metal felt cold against my palms.
Don't let men close enough to hurt you.
The door swung open. A maintenance worker wheeled in a dolly stacked with boxes. I tracked his movement across the room—mid-fifties, wedding ring, company logo on his shirt. He didn't look at me. Didn't linger. Dropped the boxes and left.
My heartbeat settled back into normal rhythm.
Don't trust anyone just because they're nice.
Jenna hadn't been nice. She'd been efficient, blunt, slightly annoyed. Somehow that felt safer than kindness. Kindness came with expectations.
Never, ever let someone think they own you.
"You good?" Jenna was staring at me again.
I realized I'd been standing motionless, pitcher in hand, staring at foam that had already separated.
"Yeah. Sorry. Just concentrating."
Jenna dumped my failed foam into the sink. "Concentrating looks different than spacing out."
She grabbed a fresh pitcher, demonstrated again. The steam wand hissed—a sharp, controlled burst—then silence. Foam bloomed across the surface, thick and glossy.
"Your turn. And pay attention this time."
I mimicked her movements. Steam screamed through the milk, too loud, too violent. The foam came out thin and bubbly, more cappuccino than latte.
"Better. Keep practicing." Jenna moved to the espresso machine, pulled the portafilter free with a sharp twist. "Openers get here at five. You'll be one eventually, so watch."
She walked me through the opening checklist—a laminated sheet taped beside the register, items numbered one through thirty-seven.
Start the machines. Check the milk dates.
Brew the first pot of drip coffee. Stock the pastry case with whatever the delivery guy brought, assuming he remembered to show up. Count the register. Fill out the log.
"You write down every discrepancy," Jenna said, tapping the logbook with one finger. "Missing five bucks? Write it down. Extra twenty? Write it down. Management's paranoid about theft."
I nodded, memorizing the sequence.
"Closing's worse." She grabbed the mop from the corner, thrust it at me. "Floor gets mopped every night. Machines get broken down, cleaned, sanitized. You'll smell like burned coffee and bleach for a month before you stop noticing."
The mop handle felt sticky under my palms.
"Game days are different," Jenna continued, restocking napkins with mechanical precision.
"Doors open two hours before puck drop. You'll get slammed—and I mean slammed. Lines out the door. Everyone wants beer, hot dogs, nachos, all at once. No time to breathe, no time to pee, no time to think."
She pulled out a laminated chart, pointed to highlighted sections.
"Players come through about an hour before game time. They'll want their usual orders. Don't fuck those up. They get cranky when they don't get their routines."
"And after?"
"After, you clean up the war zone and go home." Jenna shoved the chart back under the counter. "Sometimes fans hang around hoping for autographs. Not your problem. Security handles it."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
"Questions?"
A thousand of them crowded my throat. Instead, I shook my head.
"Good. Because we open in ten minutes."