Page 16 of Blades Out
The protectiveness felt worse. Too strong. Too immediate. Too visceral. One apologetic conversation and I already wanted to stand between her and anything that might hurt her. The team. The players who'd inevitably notice her. The casual cruelty of a world that chewed up people like her and spit them out.
Myself most of all.
I exhaled hard, dragging both hands through my hair. Irritation prickled under my skin—not at her, but at my own inability to compartmentalize the way I usually did. To shut down the response before it became a problem.
She wasn't a child anymore.
Wasn't helpless, despite the fear I'd seen in her eyes.
She'd walked into my office, voiced her needs clearly, held her ground even while terrified. That took strength most people never developed. She'd survived. Built something. Kept going.
She didn't need me playing guardian.
And yet.
One look at her and every instinct I possessed roared to life with a single directive: protect.
From everything.
From everyone.
From the version of myself that couldn't stop noticing the curve of her neck when she'd tilted her head, apologizing for something that didn't matter.
I was so screwed.
A knock rattled the door frame—sharp, efficient, the kind that expected an immediate response.
"Rhys? You ready for morning skate?"
Coach Barrett's voice cut through the spiral of thoughts like a blade through fog. I blinked, awareness snapping back to the present with an almost physical jolt. The practice diagrams. The office. The job I actually got paid to do.
Right.
"Yeah," I called back, voice steady. Flat. Nothing in it to suggest I'd just spent the last ten minutes dissecting every reason I had no business thinking about the new barista.
I grabbed the lukewarm coffee sitting on my desk—the cup Jenna had made after Olivia's disaster—and knocked it back in three long swallows. Bitter. Cold. Borderline undrinkable. I didn't react. Didn't grimace. Just set the empty cup down and stood, rolling my shoulders until something in my upper back cracked.
Professional mode clicked into place like armor sliding over vulnerable flesh. The thoughts, the memories, the unwanted pull toward someone I couldn't afford to notice—all of it got shoved down deep where it belonged. Locked away. Controlled.
I was good at this part.
Shutting down. Compartmentalizing. Becoming exactly what the team needed: cold, focused, unshakable.
I crossed to the door in measured steps, grabbed my jacket off the hook, and pulled it on without hurrying. Neutral expression. Blank slate. The mask I'd worn for years settled over my features like it had never left.
When I opened the door, Barrett stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, gray stubble catching the fluorescent light. He studied me for half a second—assessing, the way good coaches did—then jerked his chin toward the rink.
"Let's go. Forwards are sloppy today. Need your brand of motivation."
Translation: Someone needed to get yelled at, and I was better at delivering cold discipline than anyone else on staff.
I nodded once and followed him down the corridor, leaving everything else behind.
The cold hit the moment I stepped onto the ice—sharp, clean, real. My breath misted in the air as I laced up my skates and pushed off, blade edges biting into the fresh surface with that familiar hiss that settled something deep in my chest.
This, I understood. This made sense.
The roster filtered onto the ice in their usual chaotic rhythm, voices echoing off the rafters as they stretched and circled. I kept my distance, skating lazy laps along the boards while Barrett barked instructions from the bench.
