Tuesday night. Seven-forty-two. The Wolves play the Rattlers in less than an hour, and the premium concourse is already flooding with early arrivals. Men in expensive suits loosen their ties and shout into phones. Women in designer coats clutch overpriced drinks and check their reflections in the polished steel of the concession counters.

The espresso kiosk sits at the mouth of Section 14, a gleaming island of chrome and Italian machinery that looks wildly out of place against the utilitarian gray of the arena walls. The sign above it reads THE DAILY GRIND in crisp white lettering—corporate-mandated, Rhonda's doing. The specials board beside it is updated daily. Tonight, it reads: HAT TRICK MOCHA and POWER PLAY LATTE.

Behind the counter, Callie Brooks is a study in controlled chaos. Her dark hair is pulled back in a functional ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face, which is younger than it looks. She's all sharp angles and tired eyes, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done this exact dance a thousand times before She counts the inventory in her head as she restocks the pastry case—eight blueberry muffins, twelve almond croissants, a sad-looking tray of gluten-free brownies that nobody ever buys.

The line is already four deep.

Callie lets out a breath, counts to three, and calls the next customer forward. Her eyes flick left, toward the heavy steel door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY that leads to the Zamboni bay. It's slightly ajar, the way it always is on game nights, and through the gap she can just make out a slice of Jack's office—the warm spill of a desk lamp, the edge of a battered wooden chair, and the corner of a portable playpen that's been set up behind his desk. She catches a flash of movement, a tiny hand waving at the air, and her chest unlocks a fraction.

Jack MacInnis appears in the doorway, his weathered face half-hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses that he wears indoors because he can, because he's been working this building for thirty-five years and nobody's going to tell him otherwise. He tips his chin at her, a small, almost imperceptible nod that says she's fine. I've got her. Do your job.

Callie nods back. Her shoulders drop half an inch. The service smile becomes marginally less plastic. She's got six hours of this ahead of her, and the only thing keeping her upright is the rhythm of the machine, the heat of the steam wand, the repetitive burn of her forearm as she pulls shot after shot after shot.

The crowd continues to swell in her peripheral vision. Somewhere beyond the glass, the Zamboni begins its final loop of the ice, and the distant rumble vibrates up through the soles of her worn sneakers. She thinks about the small, dark-haired person sleeping on an old quilt in Jack's office, surrounded by the smell of machine oil and the soft rattle of a space heater.

She lets herself feel the warmth of that thought, just for a moment.

Then she moves on to the next customer, and the next, and the next, and the night rolls forward like it always does—one shot. One sip. One sale.

Far above her head, in the concrete guts of the arena, a locker room door swings shut.