Page 121 of Shots & Echoes

Because no matter how hard I tried to fight it, no matter how deep I buried the truth—one thing had become brutally clear.

She wasn’t the one who was going to break.

I was.

I stepped into the shower, letting scalding water pound against my skin, hoping it could burn away the mess in my head. Steam curled around me, thick and suffocating, but not nearly as suffocating as the weight pressing against my ribs.

I glanced up, catching my reflection in the fogged-up mirror—red-rimmed eyes, a clenched jaw, exhaustion carved into every line of my face. I looked like him. Like my father.

Older than I should.

Burned out.

The realization made something bitter churn inside me, something I couldn’t fucking stomach. I dragged my hands over my face, scrubbing hard, as if I could scrape away the resemblance, strip myself of the legacy that had been forced onto my back since the moment I could hold a hockey stick.

But nothing washed away. Not the regret. Not the doubt. And sure as hell not Iris.

She was still there. Everywhere. Clinging to my skin like the steam filling the air. I could still feel her—the way her body fitagainst mine, the way she fucking surrendered, giving in even as she fought me every step of the way.

I let my forehead rest against the cool tile, breathing hard.

What the fuck was I doing?

The sharp buzz of my phone shattered the quiet. I exhaled roughly, stepping out and swiping it off the counter, already bracing for whatever shitstorm was waiting for me.

Coffee. 9 AM. Don’t bail.

Dad.

The words were short, clipped—same as always.

I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around the phone. Because it was never just coffee. It was a performance review. A lecture disguised as fatherly wisdom. A reminder that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I clawed my way back, I still wasn’t good enough.

I tossed the phone onto the counter and caught my reflection again. The circles under my eyes, the tension carved into my jaw. It wasn’t just him staring back at me anymore. It was me. The version I’d been running from for years, the one that was starting to look too much like a man who never knew how to stop before everything fell apart.

Canceling wasn’t an option. Dad would just find another way to remind me who was in charge.

With a grimace, I yanked on jeans and a fitted shirt, running a hand through my damp hair before heading out. The cold morning air hit me like a slap, jolting me back into reality as I slid into my car.

I gripped the steering wheel, exhaling through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.

Today was going to be a battle. But when wasn’t it?

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white as I navigated the too-familiar route to River Styx. Every turn, every stretch of road felt like a slow drag toward something inevitable—a conversation I didn’t fucking want to have.

The cracked window let in the bite of morning air, sharp and cold, but it did nothing to shake the unease coiling tight in my gut. Every stoplight stretched longer than it should have, every passing second a taunt. Dragging me closer.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted his car—parked near the entrance, exactly where it always was. Like he owned the place. Like he was already settled in, waiting for me to show up and take whatever lecture he had prepped for today.

I exhaled hard and stepped inside.

The scent of burnt coffee and stale pastries hit me immediately—the stench of routine, of expectation. Of mornings spent in this same booth, having these same fucking talks.

I slid into the seat across from him. Coach Callahan. My father.

Back straight. Shoulders squared. Every inch of him a man who lived in control. He didn’t even look up right away, just kept his focus on the newspaper in front of him, fingers tapping absently against the coffee cup he nursed like it held something stronger.

“Knox.”