Page 91 of Blades Out
"We crushed that."
I laughed. Actual, genuine laughter. "We really did."
Ben's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, frowned at the screen. "Damn."
"What's wrong?"
"My sister. Her car broke down." He typed something quick, lips pressed together. "She's stranded across town. See, this is why I told her late-night movies?—"
"Go."
His head snapped up. "What? No, I can't just?—"
"We're almost done." I gestured at the counter. "And you had the hard job. Seriously, go help her."
"You sure?"
The concern in his voice made something in my chest squeeze. Nice. He was so aggressively nice. "Yeah, definitely. I've got this."
"I owe you." He was already untying his apron, relief and guilt warring across his features. "Seriously. Next shift's on me."
"Just go."
He rounded the counter in three steps and hugged me—quick, grateful, the kind of hug that meant nothing beyond genuine appreciation. His shirt smelled like coffee grounds and sweat. Then he grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door, already pulling up his sister's location on his phone.
The café settled into silence.
I exhaled slowly. Rolled my shoulders. The adrenaline that had carried me through the rush started to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
But the work wasn't done.
I grabbed the spray bottle and rag. Wiped down the counter in long, methodical strokes. Collected abandoned cups and napkins from tables. Restocked the condiment station. Swept the floor where someone had spilled sugar.
The routine soothed something frayed in my chest. Gave my hands purpose. Let my mind drift without landing anywhere too painful.
Almost done.
Then I could go home. Lock the door. Collapse into bed and pretend this week hadn't hollowed me out.
Almost.
Chapter 18
Rhys
The arena had gone quiet. Not silent—nothing that housed a full-sized rink ever achieved true silence—but muted. Dim. The kind of quiet that pressed against the ears after hours of crowd noise and skate blades carving ice.
I should've been home an hour ago.
Instead, I paced the upper corridor like something caged. Checked the locker room twice for equipment that didn't need checking. Pulled up practice footage on my tablet and stared at formations I'd already memorized, watching plays I could diagram in my sleep.
Restless didn't begin to cover it.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I hadn't checked it in twenty minutes. Didn't need to. She would've clocked out by now. Gone home. Put distance between us like I'd demanded without saying the words.
Good.
Distance. Space. Control.
