Page 72 of Blades Out
I straightened, dragging both hands through my hair, exhaling hard.
This was a problem. A serious problem. And I had absolutely no idea how to fix it.
The anger drained out of me all at once, replaced by something colder.
I replayed the morning in my head—not the moment with Ben, but before that. The way she'd flinched when Maddox's voice boomed across the café. The way her eyes tracked the door every time it opened. The stiffness in her shoulders that never quite eased, even when she smiled.
She'd been scanning exits. Checking escape routes. Positioning herself with her back to the wall whenever possible.
Those weren't the habits of someone adjusting to a new job. Those were survival instincts. The kind you learned when the world taught you early that safety was conditional and danger wore familiar faces.
I'd seen it before. In the mirror. In teammates who'd grown up the hard way. In the eyes of people who'd been hurt too many times to trust easily.
And I'd seen it in her—years ago, when I pulled her out of that apartment.
My stomach turned over, slow and sick. Something was wrong. Not just nerves. Not just first-week jitters.
Something was hunting her.
I didn't know what. Didn't know who. But every instinct I'd honed over decades of reading threats screamed that she was in danger.
And she wasn't telling anyone.
Of course she wasn't. People like her—people like us—we didn't ask for help. We handled it alone. We kept our heads down and survived, however we could.
But she was too young for that. Too small. Too alone.
I shoved away from the desk, pacing the narrow strip of floor between the wall and the shelves. My pulse kicked up again, but this time it wasn't jealousy.
It was dread.
She needed protection. Real protection. Not some part-time barista who made her laugh. She needed someone who knew how to watch for danger. Someone willing to get his hands dirty if necessary.
She needed me.
Whether she wanted me there or not.
I pulled up the game footage on my laptop; the familiar blue-and-white jerseys filling the screen. Power play formations. Defensive breakdowns. Neutral zone transitions I needed to dissect before tomorrow's practice.
The video played. Lines moved. Pucks ricocheted off boards.
I didn't see any of it.
My eyes tracked the motion, but my brain registered nothing. The screen blurred. Reset. I rewound the same thirty seconds three times without absorbing a single detail.
Focus.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, willing myself to concentrate.
The door rattled—three sharp knocks.
"Yeah," I called out, not looking up.
Andrew Crown stuck his head in, easy grin already forming. "Hey, Coach. Got a second? Wanted to ask about?—"
"Not now."
The words came out harsher than I intended. Sharper. Cold enough that Andrew's smile faltered.
