Page 11 of Blades Out
I wasn't that scared little girl anymore.
You left to start over.
Except I hadn't really left, had I? Not when the past could walk through a café door and shatter my composure with a single glance. Not when fifteen years of carefully constructed walls crumbled the moment dark eyes met mine.
A flash of memory—strong arms lifting me, the scratch of a uniform against my cheek, the smell of coffee and something metallic I'd later recognize as blood. A quiet voice cutting through chaos, "I've got you. You're safe now."
I shoved the image down hard. Buried it beneath layers of control I'd spent years building.
Get it together.
My breathing evened out. The shaking in my hands slowed to an occasional tremor instead of a constant earthquake. I wiped my face with the back of my hand—no tears had fallen. Good. Small victory.
I stood, legs unsteady but functional, and smoothed down my apron.
The facts lined up cold and clear: I'd dumped coffee on someone important. Someone dangerous. Someone who could cost me this job with a single complaint to management. Hiding in a storage room wouldn't fix that. Wouldn't pay rent or keep me off someone's couch.
I had to apologize.
The thought made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to acknowledge the truth. Whatever history existed between us—whatever he remembered or didn't—none of it mattered as much as survival. I needed this job. Needed to prove I could handle normal interactions without falling apart.
Which meant facing him again.
My reflection stared back from a metal shelf—pale, wide-eyed, terrified.
I straightened my shoulders.
Fix it. Now.
The arena stretched out like a maze designed to swallow people whole.
I pushed through the storage room door and immediately lost my bearings. Left or right? The hallway split in both directions—identical gray walls, identical fluorescent strips buzzing overhead, identical scuffed linoleum that had seen better decades.
I picked left. Had to start somewhere.
My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last, dread accumulating in my chest like water filling a sinking ship. This was a terrible idea. Monumentally stupid. What was I even going to say?
Sorry I dumped coffee on you fifteen years after you saved my life?
The hallway opened into a wider space—some kind of equipment room or maintenance area. Definitely wrong. I backtracked, turned right instead, and found myself facing a stairwell that led down to what looked like locker rooms based on the distant sound of running water.
Wrong again.
A group of players rounded the corner ahead—massive bodies in team gear, voices carrying that particular brand of confidence that came from knowing you owned the space you occupied. I dropped my gaze immediately, studying the floor like it contained vital information, and pressed myself against the wall to let them pass.
They didn't notice me. Most people didn't.
I forced myself forward again, following signs that pointed toward "Coaching Offices" with arrows that seemed deliberately unclear about which direction they actually meant.
You shouldn't be doing this.
The thought came sharp and insistent. He was a coach. I was a café worker on her first day. Those worlds didn't intersect. Bothering him would only make things worse—draw more attention, create more opportunities to screw up, maybe even guarantee the firing I was trying to prevent.
But getting fired without trying to fix it was worse.
I climbed another set of stairs. The hallway here looked different—quieter, carpeted instead of linoleum, with actual office doors instead of equipment closets. Nameplates gleamed on some of them. This felt right.
I walked slowly, checking each plate. Assistant coaches. Trainers. Medical staff. And then?—
