Everything else could wait.
Had to wait.
Barrett ran a power play drill—standard rotation, nothing complicated. I should've been able to call corrections in my sleep.
Instead, I lost track of Maddox's positioning for three full seconds. Watched Hudson set up a pass that went nowhere because I'd missed the coverage breakdown that created the opening.
Sloppy. Unacceptable.
"Ackerman."
Barrett's voice cut sharp across the ice. I blinked, refocusing on the play in front of me instead of the phantom memory of green eyes and an apology I hadn't deserved.
"Yeah."
"You with us?"
"Yeah."
He held my gaze longer than necessary, skepticism written all over his face, but didn't push. Just blew the whistle and reset the drill.
I forced my attention back where it belonged. Called out adjustments. Tracked player movement with the precision I'd built my entire coaching career on.
It lasted maybe four minutes before her voice threaded through my thoughts again.
I need this job.
The desperation underneath those words. The way she'd stood in my office trying not to shake. The gratitude that had flooded her expression when I'd told her she wasn't fired—as if I'd granted some enormous mercy instead of basic human decency.
What the hell was wrong with me?
"Yo, Coach." Sam skated past during a water break, concern bleeding through his trademark smile. "You good? You look dead, man."
"Fine."
"You sure? Because you've been staring at the same spot on the ice for like?—"
"I'm fine."
He raised both hands in surrender and glided away.
I gripped the boards harder than necessary, jaw clenched against the truth I didn't want to admit.
Even here—the one place I controlled everything—I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Worse than that?
Part of me wanted to go back to that café. Wanted to hear her voice again.
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?
