Chapter 2
Rhys
I woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, echoing kind that settled into the corners of my apartment and refused to leave.
I stared at the ceiling—plain white, no art, no personality, no distractions.
Exactly how I needed it. The bedroom matched the rest of the space: minimalist, ordered, uninviting.
A single, low dresser. Mattress on a platform frame.
Black sheets. Gray blanket. No photographs. No clutter. Nothing soft.
Nothing anyone would want to stay for.
Good.
I didn't have room for anyone else in my life. Not anymore.
I sat up. Bones cracked. Shoulders pulled tight from another night of too-little sleep. I pressed the heel of my palm into my eye socket, grinding away the exhaustion that never quite left. Still tired. Always tired.
The alarm on my phone read 4:47 AM. Three minutes before it would've gone off. I shut it down and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
Shower. Hot enough to burn, short enough not to waste time. I didn't linger. Water was functional—wake the body, rinse away the night, move forward.
Clothes came next. Black jeans. Gray shirt. Hoodie over it, the fabric worn soft at the cuffs where I'd pushed the sleeves back a thousand times. Jacket on top. Layers. Armor.
My keys sat on the counter beside the coffee maker I never used. I grabbed them, checked the deadbolt twice out of habit, and left.
The hallway outside was still dark. My neighbor's door had a wreath on it—fake autumn leaves, cheerful and out of place. I didn't know their name. Didn't want to.
The stairwell smelled like cleaning solution and someone's burned dinner from the night before. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. Five flights. Faster. No forced conversation if someone else stepped in.
Outside, the air bit cold. November clung to the city with teeth. I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked.
The arena was a fifteen-minute drive, ten if I pushed it. I'd walk when I could. Needed the space between waking and working. Needed the quiet.
My phone buzzed. Text from the head coach—schedule update, nothing urgent. I pocketed it without responding.
The streets were empty. Dawn hadn't cracked yet. Just streetlights and shadows and the distant sound of a delivery truck rattling past.
I locked the world out with every step.
The cold slapped me awake better than any alarm ever could. I preferred it this way—sharp, unforgiving, honest. No pretense. Just air cold enough to burn your lungs if you breathed too deep.
I moved through the streets with purpose. Head down. Hood up. Long strides that ate up distance without hurry. People had a way of sensing when someone didn't want to be bothered. Most stepped aside before I had to say anything.
The arena loomed ahead, all concrete and steel and fluorescent lighting that would flood the interior the second I stepped through those doors.
Practice didn't start for another hour, but I'd be there, anyway.
Always was. Tape to prep, drills to review, footage to watch.
Work never stopped, and I didn't want it to.
Except my head pounded. Dull, persistent throb behind my eyes that coffee might—might—dull enough to function through.
I didn't usually bother with the arena café.
Overpriced, overcrowded, filled with staff and players who thought small talk was mandatory.
I kept instant packets in my office for exactly this reason.
But I'd run out yesterday.
I stopped walking. Stood there on the sidewalk, breath clouding in front of my face, weighing options I shouldn't have needed to weigh.
Café. Five minutes, in and out. Black coffee. No conversation.
I changed direction.
The side entrance to the arena was closer to the café than the main coaching offices. Fewer people used it this early. I pushed through, and the building swallowed me whole—warm air, the smell of ice and rubber and sweat that never quite left no matter how much they cleaned.
My boots echoed on the concrete. No one around yet. Good.
The café sat tucked near the main concourse, lights already on, someone moving behind the counter. I slowed. Recognized the older girl—Jenna, maybe. She'd worked here for years, knew better than to try chatting.
I pulled the door open.
Warmth hit me. The smell of burnt espresso and sugar. A few early staffers scattered at tables, heads bent over phones.
The room shifted when I walked in. Conversations dropped mid-sentence. A guy at the corner table glanced up, then back down at his phone—fast, deliberate. Two staff members near the pastry case moved aside without me asking. The space rearranged itself, made room I hadn't requested.
I didn't acknowledge it.
I moved toward the counter, focused on the menu board I'd never actually read, already knowing what I'd order. Black coffee. Same as always. Simple. Fast. No?—
My gaze dropped.
And locked on the girl behind the register.
Everything in my chest seized.
No.
She stood there in the standard café uniform—black polo, hair pulled back, eyes wide and uncertain as she watched Jenna demonstrate the register. Young. Too young. Delicate features, nervous energy radiating off her in waves I could feel from six feet away.
Olivia.
The name hit me like a fist to the sternum.
She didn't see me yet. Too focused on whatever Jenna was explaining, nodding along with that earnest intensity that made my jaw clench. She bit her bottom lip, concentration etched across her face, and something dark and unwanted coiled low in my gut.
What the hell is she doing here?
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not in this building. Not in my space.
I knew her. Knew the shape of her face, the way she held herself like she was trying to take up less space than she deserved.
I forced my expression blank. Locked down everything threatening to surface.
Her hands shook when she reached for the cup to make someone else's order.
Not much. Just enough that I caught it—the slight tremor in her fingers as she fumbled with the sleeve, tried to steady herself against the counter. She kept her eyes down, focused on the task with an intensity that screamed inexperience.
Jenna hovered close, watching. Correcting without words—a subtle shift of position, a hand guiding Olivia's grip on the coffee pot. Training mode. Which meant this girl was brand new.
Too new.
I shouldn't notice these details. Shouldn't catalog the way she held herself—shoulders hunched, body angled slightly away like she expected someone to shove past her. Defensive posture. Prey animal awareness.
Same as when she was twelve.
The memory surfaced before I could stop it. Her, small and wide-eyed, trembling. She was cold, lip cut, bleeding?—
I stopped.
That look hadn't changed.
She moved to the espresso machine, and her elbow caught the edge of someone's abandoned plate. It clattered. She flinched—full-body reaction, instant and visceral—before catching herself. Forced her shoulders down. Smoothed her expression.
But I'd seen it.
The older guy two spots behind me in line shifted forward, invaded her space without realizing it. Olivia stepped back immediately, created distance, reset her boundary. Automatic. Practiced.
What the hell happened to you?
The question formed before I could kill it.
I knew pieces. Her mother's situation. The chaos of her childhood. But knowing facts wasn't the same as seeing the aftermath written across someone's body language—the hypervigilance, the way she monitored exits, kept her back protected.
She was trying. Trying so damn hard to appear normal, competent, calm. But everything about her screamed fragile. One wrong word from shattering.
And I stood here watching her like some kind of predator identifying weakness.
Stop.
I dragged my gaze away. Focused on the menu board. The scuffed floor. Anything but her.
She didn't belong in my line of sight. Didn't belong in my thoughts. Didn't belong this close.
Jenna nudged her forward. Olivia looked up. Saw me.
The color drained from her face.
Jenna saw me next. Her spine went rigid. That familiar stiffening—the one everyone displayed when they remembered who I was, what I'd done on the ice, the reputation that followed me off it. She didn't smile. Didn't pretend. Just locked eyes with me for half a second, then looked away.
Professional distance. Smart.
She turned to Olivia. Said something too quiet for me to hear. Nudged her forward with an elbow.
No.
Olivia's eyes went wide. Panic flashed across her face—brief, controlled, but unmistakable. She shook her head once. Small movement. Desperate.
Jenna nudged her again. Harder.
Olivia stepped up to the register.
Every muscle in her body screamed tension. Shoulders drawn tight. Hands clasped together at her waist, like she needed something to hold onto. She kept her gaze down, wouldn't look at me, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed.
Terrified.
She was terrified of me.
The realization landed like a blade between my ribs.
"Hi." Her voice came out barely above a whisper. Soft. Uncertain. "What can I—" She stopped. Cleared her throat. Tried again. "What can I get you?"
Christ.
That voice.
I'd forgotten what she sounded like. Forgotten the particular cadence, the way she shaped words with careful precision like she'd practiced being understood. She'd been younger then. A kid. Voice higher, thinner, lacking the fullness it carried now.
But the vulnerability—that hadn't changed. Still threaded through every syllable. Still present in the way she hesitated before speaking, like she expected to be cut off. Dismissed. Ignored.
My chest tightened.
I shouldn't remember her voice at all. Shouldn't have cataloged it in the first place. She'd been a job—someone else's problem that became mine for exactly one night. That should've been the end.
But I'd heard her thank me. Heard her whisper, "Please don't leave" when the medics arrived. Heard her cry in the back of the ambulance because her mother wasn't coming.
Stop.
"Black coffee."
The words came out flat. Low. No inflection. I hadn't meant them to sound threatening, but her flinch told me they had, anyway.