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Coach Dawson’s voice echoes in my skull like a death knell:

You’re one bad decision away from losing everything.

Well, fuck. Here we are.

My hands start to shake. Not from fear—from something deeper. Something that claws at my ribs from the inside.

I don’t have time to respond. Griffin launches, his fist colliding with my jaw before I even see it coming. The impact sends shockwaves through my skull, rattling my teeth. Pain explodes behind my eyes like fireworks. Another blow lands against my cheek and I stumble, the ground tilting sideways like the world’s been knocked off its axis. I taste blood—warm, copper, familiar. I see red—real red—and snap.

The hit unlocks something primal in me. All the rage I’ve been swallowing for weeks—the pressure from Dawson, the team politics, the constant feeling like I’m walking a tightrope over myown grave—it all pours out through my fists like poison from a wound.

I punch back. Hard. Right in his arrogant, overprotective, holier-than-everyone face.

The satisfying crunch of cartilage under my knuckles sends electricity up my arm. Griffin’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nose in a perfect arc.

We go at it. Fists flying. Shouting. Teeth gritted. I’ve been in brawls before, but this is personal. I’m not just fighting him—I’m fighting the guilt, the fear, the weight of something too big to carry. I’m fighting every voice that’s ever told me I’m not good enough.

Griffin’s good. I’ll give him that. His footwork’s solid, and he knows how to throw a punch that means business. But I’m bigger, and I’ve got years of pent-up fury driving me forward.

Every hit I land feels like I’m punching through the voices that tell me I’m not good enough. Not stable enough. Not father material.

My knuckles split open, skin peeling back like fruit. Blood fills my mouth, coating my tongue with the taste of iron and rage. Griffin catches me with an uppercut that makes my vision white out for a second, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

Sweat stings my eyes. My shirt clings to my back, soaked through. The Florida heat presses down on us like a weight, making every breath feel thick and insufficient.

“Enough!” Her voice cuts through like a blade.

She grabs me by the shoulders, trying to yank me back, snapping me out of my rage.

My muscles jerk under Katarina’s grip, tendons screaming.

Griffin’s chest heaves like he’s ready for round two. Blood streams from his nose, painting his teeth red. Hate burns in his stare like a fever.

“You think you can just fuck her and walk away? That you can ruin her and pretend like it means nothing?”

The accusation hits harder than his fists. Because part of me—the part that’s been running from everything good in my life since I was old enough to throw a punch—wants to do exactly that. The familiar itch to bolt crawls under my skin like insects.

“I didn’t plan for any of this,” I grit out, glaring back. Spittle flies from my lips, mixed with blood. “But I didn’t run either. Not until I didn’t know how to stay.”

“Bullshit. I told her what kind of guy you are. I knew this shit would happen.”

“And what? You think your fists fix it? You think you get to decide what she does with her own goddamn life?”

I want to tell him he’s wrong about me. That I’m not the same angry kid who used hockey as an excuse to hurt people.

But the truth is, I don’t know if I’ve changed. The evidence suggests otherwise—here I am, bloody-knuckled and panting like an animal.

The thought of a baby—my baby—makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with Griffin’s punches. Something the size of a grape, growing inside Katarina. Something that’s half me, half her. The magnitude of it makes my knees weak.

“That’s enough,” Katarina screams. “Both of you.”

Her voice slices through the silence like a scalpel.

“Griffin. Go.”

We all stop.

She’s not yelling. She’s not crying. But she might as well have screamed. Her voice carries the kind of finality that ends wars.