Page 137 of Blades Out
Jenna hadn't looked up. Ben hadn't either. Both focused on their tasks, managing the rush with the kind of tunnel vision that came from survival mode during game nights.
Neither of them had noticed.
But I had.
My hands flexed once at my sides. Jaw tight. Every instinct I'd honed over years of reading ice—anticipating plays, sensing danger before it materialized—screamed that something had shifted.
She should be here. She wasn't. And that difference meant everything.
I stepped into the café. The crowd had thinned but hadn't cleared—stragglers nursing lukewarm drinks, a few families packing up to leave. The overhead lights felt too bright. Too harsh. Everything sharp-edged and wrong.
Jenna wiped down the counter with mechanical precision. Her shoulders carried tension I recognized—the kind that came from holding it together when you wanted to snap.
Ben slammed a stack of cups into the dispenser. Once. Twice. The third hit rattled loud enough to turn heads.
The vibe was off. Not just busy-shift exhaustion. Something else. Something that made the air feel thin and brittle.
I scanned the room once more. Sharp. Focused. Every corner. Every shadow. Every possible place she could be tucked away, hidden, working quietly out of sight.
Nothing.
"Where is she?" My voice came out flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Jenna's hand paused mid-wipe. She glanced up, confusion flickering across her face before she masked it with professional neutrality. "Who?"
"Olivia."
Ben's entire body went rigid. The cup he'd been holding hit the counter harder than necessary. His head snapped toward me, and something dark crossed his expression—recognition, then anger, fast and hot.
He stared at me for three full seconds. I felt the calculation happening behind his eyes. Felt him connecting dots I hadn't known were visible.
Then his jaw tightened. "So it's you."
I didn't blink. Didn't move. Just watched him with the same cold assessment I used on players who got too aggressive on the ice. "What?"
Ben stepped out from behind the counter. Stupid. Emotional. His hands flexed at his sides like he was considering something monumentally idiotic. "You're the one she's fucking."
The café went quiet. Not all at once—a ripple effect. Conversations dying mid-sentence. Heads turning. The hiss of the espresso machine suddenly too loud in the absence of human noise.
Jenna's mouth opened slightly. Closed. She looked between us like she was watching a car accident in slow motion.
I stood perfectly still. No reaction. No denial. No confirmation. Just cold, lethal silence that made Ben's bravado waver at the edges.
He recovered fast, though. Took another step closer, voice rising. "That's why she broke it off. Because she's already got someone else warming her bed."
My hands didn't move. Didn't clench. But something in my expression must have shifted because Ben stopped advancing. Smart enough to recognize the line he was dancing toward.
"I asked you a question." My voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous than shouting. "Where is Olivia?"
Ben's anger flickered. Uncertainty crept in at the edges. "I don't know. She went on break maybe twenty minutes ago? Said she needed air."
Twenty minutes. Too long. Way too long.
"Where?"
"How the hell should I know?" Ben's defensiveness sounded hollow now. "She didn't exactly give me her itinerary after dumping me in the back hallway."
Back hallway.
