Page 12 of Blades Out
RHYS ACKERMAN - ASSISTANT COACH
My heart hammered against my ribs.
He'll remember you.
The fear came cold and certain. He'd remember the scared little girl in the blood-spattered nightgown. The broken home. The way I'd clung to him while he carried me out. Every humiliating, vulnerable moment.
Or he won't.
That possibility felt worse somehow. The idea that I'd carried that night for fifteen years while he'd forgotten completely. Just another call, another scared kid, nothing worth remembering.
I raised my hand. It shook. Knocked twice.
Silence stretched. Seconds ticked past, each one longer than the last. The quiet pressed against my eardrums until I could hear my own pulse thundering.
He wasn't here. Or he was ignoring me. Either way, I should leave. Walk away before this got worse.
I took a step back.
"Come in." His voice cut through the door—low, controlled, absolutely unmistakable.
My hand found the doorknob before my brain could override the motion.
The door swung open under my hand.
Sparse didn't begin to cover it. The office looked exactly like someone had moved in yesterday and forgotten to unpack—or never planned to. Gray walls. Metal desk. Two filing cabinets. A single window with vertical blinds pulled halfway shut. Hockey diagrams covered one wall, X's and O's mapped out in red and black marker, plays diagrammed with the kind of precision that suggested obsession.
Nothing else. No photographs. No certificates. No coffee mug with a joke printed on the side. Not even a plant dying in the corner.
The space felt temporary. Like whoever occupied it could disappear tomorrow and leave no trace they'd ever existed.
He sat behind the desk, hoodie discarded, hair pushed back from his face. The harsh overhead light carved shadows under his cheekbones, made the exhaustion in his features more pronounced. Dark eyes lifted to mine—completely unreadable. No surprise. No annoyance. Nothing but that same flat assessment that had stopped my heart in the café.
"I'm sorry." The words burst out before I could stop them. "I'm so sorry about the coffee; I didn't mean to—it was an accident, I swear. I wasn't trying to?—"
Stop talking. Stop.
But my mouth kept moving, panic overriding every attempt at control. "I just started today, and I know that's not an excuse, but I need this job. I really need this job and I can't—please don't fire me. I'll pay for the dry cleaning or replace your hoodie or whatever you need, I just?—"
My voice cracked. Humiliation burned through my chest, hot and acidic. I sounded pathetic. Desperate. Everything I'd sworn I wouldn't be anymore. The kind of person who begged instead of standing on her own.
Weak.
I forced myself to stop talking. Pressed my lips together hard enough to hurt.
He listened through the entire rambling disaster without interrupting. Didn't move. Didn't shift in his chair. Just watched with that same neutral expression that gave away absolutely nothing. The silence stretched between us—heavy, suffocating, impossible to read.
I should've stayed in the storage room.
"I'm not firing you." His voice cut through the quiet—low, calm, devastatingly flat. No inflection. No warmth. But not cruel either. Just... empty.
My breath caught.
"Accidents happen." He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze never leaving my face. "The café handles its own staffing. I don't make those decisions."
Relief hit like a physical blow. My shoulders sagged, tension draining so fast it left me dizzy. The breath I'd been holding escaped in a shaky exhale that probably sounded ridiculous.
"Thank you." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Thank you, I—thank you."
