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Straight to the point. No pleasantries. That’s Dawson for you.

“Drinking coffee. What’s it to you?”

“Cut the shit, Liam. I saw the photos from last night. You and that blonde at some fancy restaurant, looking real cozy.”

My blood chills. Of course, the fucking photos.

“It’s not—”

“What I think it is?” Dawson’s laugh cuts through me. “Kid, I’ve been around this game longer than you’ve been alive. I know a distraction when I see one.”

I set my mug down, the sound echoes through my empty kitchen. “Katarina’s hardley a distraction.”

Even as I say it, I know it’s bullshit. She’s the biggest goddamn distraction I’ve ever had. I can’t think straight when she’s around. Can’t focus on anything but the way her ass looks in those scrubs or how she bites her lip when she’s thinking.

“Really? Because word is you’ve been sniffing around the team nutritionist like a dog in heat. That sound professional to you?”

“Watch how you talk about her.”

“Or what?” His voice turns sharp. “You’ll what, exactly? Throw another classic Liam tantrum? Get yourself benched for the season before it even starts?”

The words hit hard. Fucker knows exactly where to aim to do maximum damage.

“This is your last shot, Liam. Your last fucking chance to prove you belong in this league. Are you really gonna piss it away chasing some piece of ass?”

My hand tightens around the phone until I hear it creak. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Tell you the truth? Every team in the league knows you’re one bad day away from washing out. You think they’re gonna give you another chance if you screw this up?”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I can’t say. That maybe I’m tired of being his pet project. That maybe I want something real for once in my fucked-up life.

“She’s different,” I say finally.

“They’re all different until they’re not.” Dawson’s voice softens, turns almost paternal. “Look, I get it. She’s pretty, probably smart. Makes you feel like you’re more than just a body checking machine. But feelings don’t win championships, kid. Feelings don’t pay the bills.”

My breakfast tastes like sawdust now. I push the plate away.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need to choose. Her or hockey. Because right now, you can’t have both.”

The line goes dead.

I sit there staring at my phone, Coach’s words echoing in my skull like a broken record. Choose. Like it’s that simple. Like I haven’t been choosing hockey over everything else my entire goddamn life.

But for the first time, I’m not sure hockey’s enough anymore.

Practice is a shitshow. disguised as skill development.

I’m off my game, missing passes I could make blindfolded, taking hits I should see coming from a mile away. My head’s not in it, and everyone knows it.

Coach Barnes has us running three-on-two rushes, and I’m playing like I’ve never seen a puck before. My passes are tape-to-tape with the wrong fucking tape. My shots are finding every piece of the net except the back of it.

“Steele!” Barnes’ voice cracks like a whip. “You skating in cement today?”

I’d just fanned on a one-timer that should’ve been automatic. The kind of shot I’ve buried a thousand times, the kind that pays my mortgage. Instead, the puck dribbles off my blade like a wounded duck.

Callahan shakes his head, not even trying to hide his disgust. “Come on, man. My grandmother could’ve finished that.”