"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.
Ben returned from the walk-in with two gallons of milk, kicking the door shut behind him with practiced ease. He set them down beside the espresso machine and glanced at me sideways.
"Quick survival tips?"
I blinked. "Sure."
"Don't overfill the cups." He demonstrated with an empty one, finger marking an invisible line about three-quarters up. "Leaves room for cream, sugar, whatever. Plus, less chance of spilling."
My face heated. "Got it."
"Players get weird about foam. Some want it bone dry, some want it wet, some just want milk that vaguely remembers being steamed." He shrugged. "When in doubt, ask. They'd rather you clarify than remake it three times."
I nodded, filing that away with the hundred other details I'd learned today.
"And if Nicholas Maddox comes in—" Ben's expression shifted slightly, smile dimming. "Let me take it. Trust me."
Something in his tone made my stomach tighten. "Is he?—"
"Just difficult." Ben's voice stayed carefully neutral. "Has a temper. Takes it out on whoever's closest. Not worth the stress on your first week."
