I blinked. "I wasn't planning to."
"Good. Keep it that way." She grabbed a rag and attacked a phantom stain on the counter with aggressive circular motions. "Rule two: don't give the players anything for free. No exceptions. I don't care if they promise you tickets, autographs, a damn pony. They pay full price."
"Got it."
"Rule three—" Jenna paused, straightening. Her expression shifted, something tired sliding into her features. "If Rhys Ackerman shows up, just give him his black coffee and pray he doesn't talk."
My stomach dropped. "O-Oh. Got it. He's, uh… the coach?"
Jenna stopped wiping the counter. For the first time since I'd walked in, she actually looked at me. Really looked like she was reassessing whether I was worth the effort of training.
"Assistant coach. Former defenseman." She tossed the rag into a bucket beneath the counter. "Doesn't smile. Doesn't talk. Doesn't tolerate mistakes." A beat of silence. "You'll know him when you see him."
Something cold settled in my chest.
The photograph flashed through my mind—tired eyes, long dark hair, that expression that suggested the world had tried breaking him and he'd simply refused to give it the satisfaction.
"What's his order?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Black coffee. Large. No sugar, no cream, no conversation." Jenna pulled out a laminated sheet covered in handwriting. "Here's the rest of the regular orders. Memorize them by tomorrow."
I took the sheet. My hands didn't shake.
They should have.
Jenna launched into a rapid-fire tutorial of the register system, her fingers flying across the touch screen while she rattled off shortcuts and override codes. I nodded along, memorizing sequences—iced drinks were under beverages, hot drinks had their own tab, food items lived in a nested menu that required three swipes to access properly.
My own rules scrolled through my head like ticker tape, silent and insistent: Don't draw attention.
I kept my questions minimal, my voice level. Blended into the background like wallpaper. Made myself small and useful and forgettable—exactly the kind of employee who didn't cause problems.
"—and if the card reader goes down, which it does every fucking Thursday, there's a manual imprint machine under the—Bennett, you listening?"
"Under the register. Got it."
The coffee machine hissed behind me. I pivoted before I could stop myself, pulse spiking, shoulders tensing. Just steam. Just the automatic cycle purging lines.
Don't get yelled at.
Jenna hadn't noticed my flinch. She'd already moved on to demonstrating the milk steamer, twisting valves and adjusting temperatures with mechanical precision.
I positioned myself at an angle—close enough to watch her hands, far enough that I could see the door in my peripheral vision. The wall pressed solid against my left shoulder. Exit behind me, twenty paces. Second exit through the storage room, assuming it wasn't locked.
Keep your job. You need it, desperately.
My bank account had two hundred seventeen dollars in it. Rent was due in three weeks. The car needed an oil change I'd been putting off for a month. This job paid minimum wage plus tips, which Jenna had already warned me were "shit during the regular season, slightly less shit during playoffs."
I couldn't afford to screw this up.
"Here." Jenna thrust a pitcher at me. "Practice your foam. Needs to be thick enough to hold a design but thin enough to pour clean."
I took the pitcher. The metal felt cold against my palms.
Don't let men close enough to hurt you.
The door swung open. A maintenance worker wheeled in a dolly stacked with boxes. I tracked his movement across the room—mid-fifties, wedding ring, company logo on his shirt. He didn't look at me. Didn't linger. Dropped the boxes and left.
My heartbeat settled back into normal rhythm.
