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I pressed my knuckles into the boards, letting the cold bite into my skin. Pain was easier to hold onto than whatever the fuck this was.

This wasn’t about me.

It shouldn’t be about me.

But I knew better.

I knew this was personal now.

And every stride she took was pulling me closer to a line I shouldn’t cross—but already wanted to fucking bury myself in.

Her teammates whispered about Team USA like it was already hers. Like it was inevitable.

They didn’t know shit. Didn’t know the cost. Didn’t know what it took to wear that jersey—to earn it—to bleed for it.

But I did.

Every scar on my knuckles, every crack in my ribs, every fucking bruise that I wore under the red, white, and blue?—

That was the price.

That jersey wasn’t glory.

It was survival.

She thought she knew what she wanted.

But she had no fucking clue.

I could teach her.

I would teach her.

But I wouldn’t do it for my dad.

Or for Team USA.

I’d do it because I needed to see what she looked like when she finally bled for it.

When she bled for me.

My grip on the boards tightened—knuckles straining white—because the thought didn’t just excite me.

It fucking consumed me.

I took a slow breath, chest heaving.

Let’s see what you’re willing to bleed for, Iris.

I didn’t go homeafter practice.

Couldn’t.

The gym called to me—like a goddamn confessional booth for guys like me. A place to hurt. To bleed.

I slammed through the doors, the stale smell of sweat and metal hitting me in the face—familiar, grounding. Punishment waiting.

Good.