Chapter 3
Olivia
Jenna's hand clamped around my arm hard enough to bruise. "What the hell was that?"
I couldn't answer. My lungs wouldn't expand. The air turned thick, suffocating, pressing down on my chest until black spots danced at the edges of my vision. I blinked hard, trying to force oxygen through the constriction in my throat.
"I—" The word came out strangled. "I tried to?—"
"You spilled boiling coffee on Rhys Ackerman." Jenna's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, each word sharp enough to cut. She yanked me away from the counter, out of the line of sight of the few customers still watching. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"
My throat closed completely.
No. No, no, no.
Heat flooded my face—humiliation so complete it burned hotter than the coffee I'd dumped all over him. My hands shook. Wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed them against my apron but they trembled anyway, visible proof of how badly I'd screwed up.
This job was supposed to be simple. Make coffee. Smile. Don't draw attention. Three basic rules, and I'd already shattered every single one.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean?—"
Jenna glanced over her shoulder, checking the café before leaning closer. Her grip loosened slightly but her expression stayed razor-sharp. "That could get you fired. Or worse. With him, you never know."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Fired.
I couldn't get fired. Couldn't lose this job three hours into my first shift. Couldn't go back to sleeping on someone else's couch; couldn't return to the suffocating weight of dependence; couldn't face the knowing looks when I showed up again with nothing but apologies and failure.
My apartment. The locks I checked twice every night. The independence I'd fought so hard to claim. All of it balanced on this minimum-wage position that barely covered rent.
And I'd just dumped coffee all over the one person I couldn't afford to piss off.
Fury replaced fear—hot, vicious anger directed entirely at myself. How could I be so stupid? I'd spent years learning to control my reactions, to mask the fear, to function like a normal person who didn't flinch at sudden movements or freeze when someone looked at me too long.
One glance from him and I'd fallen apart completely.
Weak. Pathetic.
The names circled my brain in an endless loop. I wanted to scream. Wanted to rewind five minutes and do it over, get it right this time, prove I could handle one simple interaction without my past crawling up my spine.
But time didn't rewind. And the damage was already done.
"Take five." Jenna released my arm, stepping back to create space between us. Her voice softened slightly—not kind, but less cutting. "Go to the back room. Clean yourself up. Pull yourself together."
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice.
My feet carried me toward the storage room on autopilot. The door swung shut behind me, muffling the café noise to a dull hum. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I hit the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
But my eyes burned anyway. Hot pressure built behind them, threatening to spill over into tears I'd sworn I'd stopped shedding years ago.
I'd recognized him. Known him the second our eyes met. And worse—far worse—I'd seen the recognition reflected back.
He remembered.
The storage room smelled like cardboard and industrial cleaner. Dim fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting weak shadows across towers of napkin boxes and syrup crates. A refrigerator hummed in the corner—steady, rhythmic, almost soothing.
I crouched behind a stack of coffee filters, knees pressed to my chest, and concentrated on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
You're not weak.
The thought came fierce, desperate. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sting cleared some of the fog from my brain.
I'd survived worse than spilling coffee.
Survived things that would've broken most people.
Left home with nothing but a backpack and determination, found this apartment, landed this job.
I wasn't that scared little girl anymore.
You left to start over.
Except I hadn't really left, had I? Not when the past could walk through a café door and shatter my composure with a single glance. Not when fifteen years of carefully constructed walls crumbled the moment dark eyes met mine.
A flash of memory—strong arms lifting me, the scratch of a uniform against my cheek, the smell of coffee and something metallic I'd later recognize as blood. A quiet voice cutting through chaos, "I've got you. You're safe now."
I shoved the image down hard. Buried it beneath layers of control I'd spent years building.
Get it together.
My breathing evened out. The shaking in my hands slowed to an occasional tremor instead of a constant earthquake. I wiped my face with the back of my hand—no tears had fallen. Good. Small victory.
I stood, legs unsteady but functional, and smoothed down my apron.
The facts lined up cold and clear: I'd dumped coffee on someone important. Someone dangerous. Someone who could cost me this job with a single complaint to management. Hiding in a storage room wouldn't fix that. Wouldn't pay rent or keep me off someone's couch.
I had to apologize.
The thought made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to acknowledge the truth. Whatever history existed between us—whatever he remembered or didn't—none of it mattered as much as survival. I needed this job. Needed to prove I could handle normal interactions without falling apart.
Which meant facing him again.
My reflection stared back from a metal shelf—pale, wide-eyed, terrified.
I straightened my shoulders.
Fix it. Now.
The arena stretched out like a maze designed to swallow people whole.
I pushed through the storage room door and immediately lost my bearings. Left or right? The hallway split in both directions—identical gray walls, identical fluorescent strips buzzing overhead, identical scuffed linoleum that had seen better decades.
I picked left. Had to start somewhere.
My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last, dread accumulating in my chest like water filling a sinking ship. This was a terrible idea. Monumentally stupid. What was I even going to say?
Sorry I dumped coffee on you fifteen years after you saved my life?
The hallway opened into a wider space—some kind of equipment room or maintenance area. Definitely wrong. I backtracked, turned right instead, and found myself facing a stairwell that led down to what looked like locker rooms based on the distant sound of running water.
Wrong again.
A group of players rounded the corner ahead—massive bodies in team gear, voices carrying that particular brand of confidence that came from knowing you owned the space you occupied.
I dropped my gaze immediately, studying the floor like it contained vital information, and pressed myself against the wall to let them pass.
They didn't notice me. Most people didn't.
I forced myself forward again, following signs that pointed toward "Coaching Offices" with arrows that seemed deliberately unclear about which direction they actually meant.
You shouldn't be doing this.
The thought came sharp and insistent. He was a coach. I was a café worker on her first day. Those worlds didn't intersect. Bothering him would only make things worse—draw more attention, create more opportunities to screw up, maybe even guarantee the firing I was trying to prevent.
But getting fired without trying to fix it was worse.
I climbed another set of stairs. The hallway here looked different—quieter, carpeted instead of linoleum, with actual office doors instead of equipment closets. Nameplates gleamed on some of them. This felt right.
I walked slowly, checking each plate. Assistant coaches. Trainers. Medical staff. And then?—
RHYS ACKERMAN - ASSISTANT COACH
My heart hammered against my ribs.
He'll remember you.
The fear came cold and certain. He'd remember the scared little girl in the blood-spattered nightgown. The broken home. The way I'd clung to him while he carried me out. Every humiliating, vulnerable moment.
Or he won't.
That possibility felt worse somehow. The idea that I'd carried that night for fifteen years while he'd forgotten completely. Just another call, another scared kid, nothing worth remembering.
I raised my hand. It shook. Knocked twice.
Silence stretched. Seconds ticked past, each one longer than the last. The quiet pressed against my eardrums until I could hear my own pulse thundering.
He wasn't here. Or he was ignoring me. Either way, I should leave. Walk away before this got worse.
I took a step back.
"Come in." His voice cut through the door—low, controlled, absolutely unmistakable.
My hand found the doorknob before my brain could override the motion.
The door swung open under my hand.
Sparse didn't begin to cover it. The office looked exactly like someone had moved in yesterday and forgotten to unpack—or never planned to.
Gray walls. Metal desk. Two filing cabinets.
A single window with vertical blinds pulled halfway shut.
Hockey diagrams covered one wall, X's and O's mapped out in red and black marker, plays diagrammed with the kind of precision that suggested obsession.
Nothing else. No photographs. No certificates. No coffee mug with a joke printed on the side. Not even a plant dying in the corner.
The space felt temporary. Like whoever occupied it could disappear tomorrow and leave no trace they'd ever existed.
He sat behind the desk, hoodie discarded, hair pushed back from his face.
The harsh overhead light carved shadows under his cheekbones, made the exhaustion in his features more pronounced.
Dark eyes lifted to mine—completely unreadable.
No surprise. No annoyance. Nothing but that same flat assessment that had stopped my heart in the café.
"I'm sorry." The words burst out before I could stop them. "I'm so sorry about the coffee; I didn't mean to—it was an accident, I swear. I wasn't trying to?—"
Stop talking. Stop.