Page 37 of Blades Out
I didn't acknowledge them. Just shifted my attention to Olivia.
She stood perfectly still, hands braced against the counter, color high in her cheeks. Those dark circles under her eyes looked even worse up close—deep purple bruises that spoke of sleepless nights and exhaustion that ran bone-deep.
Her lips parted. Closed. Opened again.
"Thank you." Barely a whisper. "You didn't have to?—"
"Black coffee." My voice came out rougher than I meant. "Please."
She blinked. Nodded once, quickly, and turned toward the machines.
Her hands trembled as she reached for a cup.
Damn it.
I turned toward her, lowering my voice so the other staff wouldn't hear. "Sorry about him."
Meant it. Every word.
Olivia's shoulders pulled inward, making herself smaller. She shook her head quickly, already dismissing it.
"It's fine. It happens." The words came out automatic, rehearsed—like she'd said them a thousand times before. She attempted a smile that died halfway across her face. "Really. I can handle it."
The forced brightness in her tone cracked something open inside my chest.
It happens.
Two words. Casual. Accepting. Like men ignoring her boundaries was just part of the job. Part of life. Something she expected and endured without complaint because what else could she do?
Heat flooded my veins—different from the anger I'd felt toward the rookie. Deeper. Darker. The kind that simmered low and dangerous and didn't have a clear target.
She poured coffee with steady hands now; the trembling gone or hidden. Professional mask firmly back in place.
Who taught you to be this small?
The question burned through my thoughts even though I already knew the answer. Had a pretty damn good guess, anyway.
Someone had trained her to apologize for existing. To minimize herself. To accept mistreatment as inevitable and never make a fuss about it because complaining only made things worse. Someone had taught her that her comfort didn't matter as much as keeping the peace.
And I'd bet everything I owned that the someone had been the man whose face I'd broken all those years ago—the one who'd screamed threats through a blood-soaked living room while I carried a terrified child out the door.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve to flinch at loud voices or accept harassment like it was part of the weather. Didn't deserve to look exhausted and scared and so goddamn alone while pretending everything was fine.
She slid the cup across the counter toward me, still not quite meeting my eyes. "Here you go. Sorry for the wait."
Stop apologizing.
The words caught in my throat. Stayed there. Because what right did I have to tell her anything? I was part of the problem—another man in her space, making her uncomfortable just by existing too close.
I wrapped my hand around the cup. Our fingers didn't touch, but I felt the heat of her proximity anyway.
"Morning skate in an hour." The words came out stiff. Mechanical. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Big game tonight. Against Boston."
Smooth, Ackerman. Real conversational.
But Olivia's shoulders dropped slightly—tension easing. Her smile shifted, still small but closer to genuine.
