"Probably scared because Ackerman spilled coffee on himself yesterday," Greyson continued, leaning back against the locker with that infuriating smirk firmly in place. "Heard she almost cried."
My jaw locked.
"She spilled it on him," someone corrected. "Jenna said the girl looked like she thought she'd get fired on the spot."
"Did she?"
"Nah. Ackerman let her off easy, apparently."
The conversation continued around me—light, meaningless banter that shouldn't have registered at all. Players talked. They always talked. About games, about stats, about women who worked at the rink or served them drinks or smiled at them in passing.
I never cared. Never reacted.
But listening to them discuss Olivia—her fear, her nervousness, Ben's interest—felt like sandpaper dragged across exposed nerve endings.
"Leave her alone."
The words cut through the noise, sharp and cold.
My words.
The locker room went silent.
Every head turned toward me. I felt the weight of their attention like a spotlight, sudden and unwelcome. My hands had gone still again, laces half-tied, tension coiled tight across my shoulders.
Nicholas Maddox arched one dark brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't know you cared, Ackerman."
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer without making this worse than it already was.
Greyson's grin sharpened into something knowing, blue eyes glinting with the kind of interest I absolutely didn't need directed my way. He leaned forward slightly, studying me with the focus of someone who'd just spotted weakness and intended to exploit it.
I bent over my skate and resumed lacing, movements deliberate. Measured. Gave them nothing else to work with.
The silence stretched—uncomfortable, loaded with questions no one quite dared ask out loud.
Then Sam cleared his throat, and the spell broke. Conversation resumed, quieter now, players exchanging glances I pretended not to see.
I finished with my skates and stood, grabbing my stick from the rack with more force than necessary.
Shouldn't have reacted.
Stupid.
The word echoed in my head, bitter and accusatory. I'd spent fifteen years building walls, maintaining distance, keeping my personal life separate from everything and everyone connected to this team.
One morning in her presence, and I'd cracked. Snapped at my own players over a girl they didn't even know I recognized.
I headed for the tunnel leading to the ice, shoulders rigid, aware of Maddox's knowing look burning into my back and Greyson's sharp attention following my exit.
I didn't understand why I'd reacted. Why hearing them discuss her—casually, harmlessly—had triggered something protective and possessive I had no right to feel.
She wasn't mine to protect. Wasn't anything to me except a ghost from a past I'd tried to bury.
But my body hadn't gotten that message. And that terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
Practice was brutal.
Not because of the drills—Barrett ran the same conditioning sequences he'd been running for weeks, nothing I couldn't execute in my sleep. Not because of the players either. They skated hard, listened when I corrected their positioning, responded to coaching with the kind of focus that came from wanting to win.
