Chapter 5
Olivia
I walked back toward the café with measured steps, forcing my breathing to even out. Normal. Calm. Like I hadn't just begged for my job in a sparse office that smelled faintly of coffee and something darker I couldn't identify.
My heart still hammered against my ribs, adrenaline refusing to drain even though the threat had passed. I wasn't fired. He'd said so himself—flat, certain, no room for argument. Accidents happened. Simple as that.
So why did my hands still shake?
The hallway felt longer on the return trip.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that particular institutional glow that made the whole arena feel like a liminal space.
Players passed in clusters, voices bouncing off concrete walls, but I kept my head down and moved through them like water around stones.
His expression played on repeat behind my eyes. Unreadable. Emotionless. The kind of neutral that felt deliberate, controlled, like he'd trained himself not to show anything that mattered. But underneath—or maybe I'd imagined it—something that wasn't quite unkind. Something almost… careful.
I shouldn't care what his expression meant.
Shouldn't be analyzing the way he'd looked at me across that desk, dark eyes steady and patient while I'd rambled through an apology that probably sounded pathetic.
Shouldn't be replaying the timber of his voice when he'd told me to be careful, like the words carried weight beyond their literal meaning.
Why did his silence feel heavier than most people's shouting?
I shoved through the café's back entrance, the familiar noise hitting me like a wave. Steam hissing. Orders being called. The clatter of ceramic and metal that had terrified me three hours ago now felt almost comforting in its normalcy.
Jenna glanced up from the espresso machine, eyebrows raised in question.
I nodded once. Still employed.
Relief flickered across her face before she turned back to her work, and I grabbed a clean apron from the hook by the sink. Tied it quickly. Positioned myself at the register where I belonged.
Work. Focus. The only thing that mattered right now.
I wasn't here to worry about intimidating hockey coaches with unreadable expressions and voices that settled something anxious in my chest, even while they set my pulse racing.
I was here to survive.
Everything else could wait.
I'd barely started restocking napkin dispensers when Jenna's hand closed around my elbow.
"Back here. Now."
She pulled me toward the storage alcove behind the espresso machine—not quite private, but out of earshot if we kept our voices low. The door to the main café stayed open, letting in fragments of conversation and the hiss of steaming milk.
Jenna crossed her arms, studying my face with an expression I couldn't quite read. Not angry. Something closer to concerned.
"You talked to him?"
"Yeah." I forced my voice steady. "He said I'm not fired."
"Good." She exhaled hard, shoulders dropping an inch.
Then she leaned closer, voice dropping. "Look, I'm glad you still have your job. But Olivia—Rhys Ackerman is impossible to read. He terrifies everyone here. Players, staff, doesn't matter. You can't tell what he's thinking, and that makes people nervous."
Something defensive flared in my chest before I could stop it. "He wasn't—I mean, he seemed fine. Calm."
Jenna's eyebrows climbed. "Fine?"
"Yeah. He just…" I trailed off, hearing how it sounded. "He told me to be careful. That's all."
"That's all," Jenna repeated slowly, like I'd said something in a foreign language.
She shook her head. "Listen to me. Players are unpredictable. You never know which one's having a bad day or looking for someone to take it out on. But coaches?"
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Coaches are worse. They have power, and they know it. Keep your head down around them. Don't take risks. Don't assume anything."
"I wasn't?—"
"I know you weren't." Her voice gentled slightly. "But I saw how you looked at him just now. Like you're trying to figure him out. Don't. It's not worth it."
I nodded, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "Okay."
"Okay," she echoed, but her expression said she didn't quite believe me. "Now get back out there before the lunch rush hits."
She released my arm and turned back toward the espresso machine, conversation over.
I grabbed a clean rag from the bin and headed for the front counter, forcing my feet to move normally. Casual. Like my pulse wasn't still racing.
The café had gotten busier while we'd talked—players lingering over protein shakes, staff grabbing quick coffees between meetings. I fell into the rhythm automatically. Wiping down counters. Stocking cups. Taking orders with the same polite smile I'd practiced in the mirror this morning.
But my hands trembled every time the bell above the door chimed.
I kept glancing toward the hallway where Rhys had disappeared. Empty every time. Just fluorescent lights and scuffed linoleum stretching toward the offices and locker rooms beyond.
My stomach refused to settle, churning with something I couldn't name. Anxiety, maybe. Or residual adrenaline from the morning's disaster.
Don't make this into something.
I scrubbed at an invisible stain on the counter, movements sharper than necessary.
He probably forgot your face already. You're one barista in a building full of people. It meant nothing.
But cruel wasn't the word that came to mind when I thought about the way he'd looked at me across that desk. Distant, yes. Controlled. But underneath that careful neutrality, something almost protective in the deliberate steadiness of his voice.
You're being ridiculous.
I was. Obviously. Letting my imagination spiral over a two-minute conversation with a man who'd shown me basic human decency by not firing me for an accident.
The bell chimed again.
I flinched, breath catching—but it was just a player I didn't recognize, tall and grinning, all easy confidence as he approached the counter.
Not him.
I forced my shoulders to relax and smiled. "What can I get you?"
But even as I took the order, even as I fell back into the safe routine of work, I couldn't shake the feeling that this morning had meant something I didn't have words for yet. Something that terrified me more than losing my job ever could.
The lunch rush thinned around one-thirty, leaving the café in that strange post-battle quiet where everyone moved a little slower and breathed a little deeper. My feet ached. My hands smelled like burned espresso and sanitizer. But I'd survived.
Jenna wiped down the espresso machine with the kind of efficiency that came from muscle memory. "You did okay," she said without looking at me. "Better than most first days."
Before I could respond, the back door swung open and someone new walked in—early twenties, tousled brown hair that looked like he'd rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago, backpack slung over one shoulder.
He had the kind of face that invited trust immediately: open expression, easy smile, eyes that crinkled at the corners like he laughed often.
He spotted Jenna first. "Hey, boss lady."
"You're late."
"Traffic." He dropped his backpack behind the counter and grabbed an apron from the hook. "Also stopped for coffee."
"You work in a café."
"Yeah, but our coffee tastes like burned regret." He tied the apron with practiced movements, then turned and saw me for the first time.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Oh. New girl."
Heat crept up my neck. "Hi."
"Ben." He offered his hand across the counter, smile widening. "Part-timer. Full-time student. Professional disaster."
I shook his hand, surprised by the warmth of it. "Olivia."
"Olivia," he repeated, like testing the name. His gaze flicked to Jenna, then back to me. "Rough first morning?"
My laugh came out awkward, strangled. "How'd you know?"
"You've got that look." He moved around the counter, sliding into the space beside Jenna with the ease of someone who'd worked here long enough to know every inch. "Wide eyes. Death grip on the rag. Plus Jenna's using her 'don't screw up again' voice, which means something interesting happened."
"I spilled coffee," I admitted quietly. "On someone."
"Ooh." Ben winced sympathetically. "Player or staff?"
My stomach tightened. "Assistant coach."
Jenna made a noise that might've been a suppressed laugh.
Ben's expression shifted—surprise mixed with something like impressed horror. "Ackerman?"
I nodded.
"And you're still employed?" He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. "Congrats. That's basically a superpower."
Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch toward a smile. "He was… fine about it."
"'Fine' is a strong word for that man's emotional range," Ben said, but his tone stayed light. Teasing. "Don't worry, though. Everyone spills something their first day. I dumped an entire tray of pastries on the floor during morning rush. Jenna almost murdered me."
"I should've," Jenna muttered, but I caught the ghost of affection in her voice.
Something in my chest loosened slightly. Ben's energy filled the space differently than Jenna's exhausted competence or the players' aggressive confidence. Comfortable. Safe. Like sitting next to someone in class who'd share their notes without making it weird.
Not attracted—I could tell that immediately, instinctively. But comforted.
He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already-clean counter beside me. "Fair warning: this place gets weirder before it gets normal. But you'll be fine. Probably."
"Probably?"
"Sixty-forty odds." His grin turned mischievous. "Maybe fifty-fifty if you keep spilling things on coaches."
Jenna rolled her eyes so hard I heard it. "Ben, stop terrorizing her and actually do your job."
"I am doing my job. Employee morale is critical to?—"
"Stock the milk."
"See?" Ben stage-whispered to me. "Tyranny."
But he moved toward the walk-in, anyway, still smiling, and for the first time all day I felt like maybe I could breathe properly.