Page 26 of Blades Out
I shouldn't be watching this. Shouldn't be cataloging the way she bit her lower lip while she worked or how her shoulders had finally dropped from the tense line they'd held earlier.
I forced my gaze forward. Turned my head with deliberate, stiff precision and kept walking.
Each step felt heavier than it should.
This is a problem.
The parking lot doors loomed ahead. I pushed through into cold air and gray sky, letting the chill bite against overheated skin.
Behind me, the café's warmth and her presence lingered like a brand I couldn't shake.
Movement snagged my peripheral vision.
I stopped mid-step, hand still on the parking lot door, and turned my head just enough to catch the figure standing at the hallway corner.
Not a player—wrong build, wrong posture, no equipment bag.
Not a coach—I knew every coach on staff and this guy wasn't one of them.
Not café staff either. Jenna wore her ponytail high and sharp. Ben moved with that easy college-kid energy. This man stood perfectly still, angled just enough to have a clear line of sight into the café. Into where Olivia worked.
My muscles locked tight, tension flooding through my shoulders and down my spine like ice water. Something primitive and protective slammed through my chest—sharp, immediate, bypassing every rational thought.
The man wore jeans and a gray jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. Hands in his pockets. Everything about him screamed deliberate anonymity. The kind of outfit designed to be forgotten the second you looked away. Nobody dressed like that belonged in a professional hockey facility. Nobody stood in that corner watching the café unless they had a reason.
I stepped forward before the decision fully formed. Shoulders squared. Jaw locked. Every line of my body shifted into something harder, sharper. The same stance I'd used breaking up fights on the ice, the same energy I'd carried as an enforcer—controlled violence barely leashed.
The man's head turned. Our eyes met across twenty feet of hallway. His expression flickered—surprise, maybe recognition, definitely calculation. He registered my presence, my posture, the threat I presented just by existing in his space.
Then he looked away. Too quickly. Too deliberately casual.
He turned and disappeared down the connecting hallway toward the main entrance, movements unhurried but purposeful. Gone in seconds like he'd never been there at all.
I stood frozen, staring at the empty corridor where he'd vanished.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. Adrenaline sang through my veins, every instinct screaming that something was wrong. That the wrongness had a shape and a face and had just walked away wearing generic clothes and a forgettable expression.
I knew that feeling. Recognized it bone-deep from years of reading opponents, anticipating violence before it erupted, sensing danger in the shift of weight or the angle of shoulders.
That man had been watching her. And he'd left the second I noticed.
I turned back toward the café, jaw clenched hard enough my teeth ached.
Olivia still stood behind the counter, completely unaware. She'd moved on to restocking cups, reaching up to slide sleeves into the overhead dispenser. The afternoon light caught her profile—focused, calm, safe inside the bubble of routine work.
She had no idea someone had been watching. No idea I'd just chased off... what? A threat? A stalker? Some random guy who'd gotten lost looking for the main office?
I should go inside.
The thought formed clear and insistent. Walk through those doors. Check on her. Ask if she's noticed anyone strange hanging around. Make sure she gets home safe.
Walk her to her car myself if necessary.
My feet didn't move. Because going inside meant crossing a line I'd spent fifteen years refusing to cross. Meant acknowledging that I cared about her safety in ways that went beyond professional responsibility or distant concern. Meant admitting I was already too involved.
She doesn't need you.
The words echoed cold and rational in my head, warring with instinct.
