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.
