Page 29 of Blades Out
The parking lot felt too quiet. Too still.
I barely made it through unlocking my apartment door before curiosity dragged me toward my laptop.
Just look. Just see who he was.
The screen glowed blue in the dimness of my living room. I didn't even bother turning on the lights, just curled onto the thrift-store couch with the computer balanced on my knees and typed: Rhys Ackerman hockey career.
The results loaded.
My breath caught.
Photos filled the screen—younger versions of the man I'd spilled coffee on, transformed into something fierce and untouchable. Dark hair shorter then, jaw sharper, eyes blazing with an intensity that made my chest tighten. He wore different jerseys in different shots, but the energy radiating from each image stayed consistent: dangerous.
Headlines scrolled past.
Ackerman Racks Up Record Penalty Minutes in Playoff Brawl
"The Eraser" Protects Star Forward in Brutal Third Period Fight
Respected Enforcer Retires After Decade of Grit and Loyalty
I clicked through articles, skimming paragraphs about his reputation. How opposing teams feared him. How his own teammates trusted him completely. How he'd fought to protect players who couldn't protect themselves, absorbed hits meant for others, made himself a target so star forwards could score.
He used to be terrifying.
The man in these photos looked nothing like the quiet, exhausted coach who'd told me accidents happened. That version seemed worn down, hollowed out, stripped of the fire burning through every highlight reel image.
But underneath—buried deep—I recognized the same controlled stillness. The same watchful calculation.
Why would a man like that help me?
The question lodged in my throat. He'd been nobody's savior, according to these articles. He'd been a weapon. A shield. Someone paid to hurt people when necessary.
He didn't owe me anything back then.
I found a highlight clip embedded in a sports blog and clicked play before I could stop myself.
The ice looked pristine until Rhys exploded across it—all brutal efficiency and calculated violence. He slammed an opposing player into the boards so hard the glass shook. Dropped gloves without hesitation when someone went after his goalie. Moved with lethal precision, every punch landing exactly where he intended.
My pulse hammered.
Why didn't he say anything when he recognized me now?
The video ended. I sat frozen, staring at the paused frame of Rhys's younger face twisted in protective fury.
Something warm and confusing unfurled in my chest—awe mixed with fear mixed with gratitude I didn't know how to process.
He'd been that man. And he'd saved me, anyway.
My phone buzzed against the couch cushion.
I flinched—stupid instinct I couldn't shake—and grabbed it with fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
Marsha Klein lit up the screen.
My stomach dropped before I even read the preview.
Hey sweetheart, need to see you. Important.
