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Instead, I sneered. “Maybe you need to see what she’s capable of.”

“She is capable,” he shot back.

That belief in his voice? That was what fucking gutted me.

Because he never talked about me like that.

Not anymore.

“You need to stop thinking this is about proving something to yourself,” he said.

My mouth twisted into a bitter grin. “Isn’t that what all this is about?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. We both knew the truth. Everything was about proving I wasn’t a fucking failure.

And right now?

Iris Evans was my proof.

Or she was my next casualty.

I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.

“Don’t mess this up, Knox," he said. “There’s no coming back from this.”

I clenched my teeth, watching my father skate away, his back straight, shoulders squared like he was still king of this ice. Like he still owned me.

The chill in the air was nothing compared to the cold settling under my skin. That familiar burn—that rage mixing with something worse.

Shame.

As if I didn’t know that already.

As if I didn’t live every fucking day knowing there was no coming back.

No redemption.

No jersey waiting for me.

Just this—circling the drain under my father’s watchful, disappointed eye.

Knox Callahan: The Ref Hit.

That was all anyone remembered.

Didn’t matter that I bled for that jersey.

Didn’t matter that I threw every fucking punch to protect my teammates.

I stepped over the line once—and now it was all I was.

My jaw tightened as I pushed off the boards, skates slicing into the ice. The cold air snapped against my face, but it didn’t cool the heat clawing up my chest. He only saw the disgrace. He only focused on the failure.

I skated harder—faster—like I could outrun his words. Like I could outrun the truth. But the echoes followed me across the ice, bouncing off the boards. Measuring me against someone better. Someone younger. Someone perfect.

Iris fucking Evans.

Daddy’s girl.