He squinted at the photo, then at my face, like he was comparing passport photos at an international border. Finally, he grunted and waved me through. The turnstile clicked as I pushed past, my bag catching on the metal bar before I yanked it free.
The interior swallowed me whole.
Hollowgrave Arena didn't believe in subtlety. The main corridor stretched wide enough to drive a truck through, walls plastered with decades of hockey history. Championship banners hung from the ceiling, purple and black fabric rippling in the artificial breeze from industrial air vents. The smell hit me immediately—ice and rubber, sweat baked into concrete, the ghost of a thousand beers spilled in celebration or despair. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sterile glow that somehow made the shadows deeper.
I passed a concession stand, shuttered and dark. A janitor pushed a mop across tiles that had seen better decades. The sound of skates on ice echoed from somewhere distant, rhythmic and sharp.
I should have asked for directions.
The corridors branched like veins, each one identical. I took a left, then a right, following signs that contradicted themselves. Administration this way. Locker rooms that way. Ice level—an arrow pointing in three directions simultaneously.
Then I stopped.
A wall of photographs stretched before me, frames packed so tight they formed a mosaic of frozen moments. Players mid-slapshot, coaches screaming from the bench, fans with faces painted in team colors. Years of history crystallized in glossy prints.
And there, third row from the top.
Him.
My heart forgot how to beat properly, stuttering in my chest like a malfunctioning engine.
Rhys Ackerman stared out from the photograph, younger but unmistakable. Long black hair pulled back, tired eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and cared about too little. He wore the Wraiths jersey, number obscured by the angle, his expression flat and unreadable even in what should have been a victory shot.
The caption beneath: Assistant Coach - Former Defenseman - "The Eraser"
My fingers found the strap of my bag, gripping until my knuckles ached.
I didn't know he'd played hockey. Not back then, when he'd—when he'd done what he did. When he'd stepped in, when everyone else had looked away, when I'd been too young and too scared and too small to understand what it meant that someone had seen me drowning and pulled me up, anyway.
He'd saved me.
And he was here. In this building. Maybe down one of these corridors, maybe standing rinkside right now.
I could see him. Thank him. Tell him that I'd made it, that the girl he'd helped all those years ago had?—
No.
I forced myself to breathe.
He wouldn't remember. Why would he? I'd been a kid. One face among thousands. A problem he'd solved and forgotten by Tuesday.
The cafe sat tucked into the east wing, practically hidden behind a concrete pillar and a faded banner advertising last season's playoff run. A hand-painted sign hung crooked above the entrance: The Penalty Box.
I pushed through the door.
Stainless steel counters gleamed under harsh overhead lights, reflecting my distorted face back at me. The hum of industrial freezers filled the space with white noise, punctuated by the rhythmic drip of a coffee machine that gurgled like it was drowning. The air tasted burned—espresso someone had forgotten to descale weeks ago; the residue baked into every surface.
"You Bennett?"
The girl behind the counter didn't look up. She moved like someone whose body had memorized every motion, refilling napkin dispensers while simultaneously restocking straws and wiping down the espresso machine with her free hand. Mid-twenties, maybe. Sharp ponytail pulled so tight it looked painful. Her name tag read Jenna in faded Sharpie.
"Yeah. Olivia."
"Great." Jenna tossed me an apron—black, stained, smelling faintly of old milk. "Put that on. Register's pretty straightforward. Don't overthink it."
I tied the apron strings, fingers fumbling with the knot twice before it held.
Jenna moved to the register, flipping the screen toward me with one hand while the other wiped condensation from the display case. "Rule one: don't flirt with the players."
