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That part—that part fucking ate at me.

Because I could see it in his face. The pride. The belief. The same look he used to give me—before I ruined it.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, hands under the table, fingers pressing into my thighs. But my blood was hot. My chest was tight. I wasn’t here to watch some perfect prospect climb the ladder I fell off. I was here because I fucked up. Because my name was a stain they needed to scrub off the jersey. Especially not her. Especially not Iris Evans—the one who made me feel like I was still a player, still in the game—every time she shoved back.

The one who made me want to push harder. To break her. Or claim her.

The door creaked open, and the air shifted.

I felt it before I saw him.

Eric fucking Chambers.

He strolled in like he still owned a locker room somewhere—like he didn’t limp slightly on that left knee because of me. The guy whose face I turned into raw meat. The fight that ended his career early—and started my spiral toward rock bottom.

My stomach twisted, sharp and sudden—like a blade in the gut. The past wasn’t done with me. It was sitting down at the fucking table.

“Hey there,” Chambers said, eyes finding mine, voice oozing that fake casual tone. Like we were old teammates, not the guys who tried to destroy each other.

I forced a smile—tight, cold, dead behind the eyes.Don’t let him see it. Don’t let anyone see it.

Chambers dropped into the seat beside Coach, his presence spreading like oil over water. Smug. Settled. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew he still had power. Knew he could wreck me again if he wanted to.

“Looking forward to seeing how you all progress,” he said, easy smile.

But I heard the edge. That wasn’t for me. For what I didn’t have anymore. He had nothing to lose. I had everything.

And she was part of it, whether she knew it or not.

I stared at the table, fingers curling into fists, nails biting into my palms.

I could feel it brewing under my skin. The same thing I always felt before the gloves dropped. Before the hit. Before the spiral. The need to fight. To destroy. To win—no matter who bled for it.

And right now?

I didn’t know if I was fighting for her… Or against her.

But I knew one thing—I wasn’t fucking losing.

Not again.

“Good to see you still involved with the game, Callahan.” Chambers’s voice was smooth—polished—but the edge was there. Sharp, cutting, aimed right at my fucking throat.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. Just locked my jaw, kept my face cold and blank—the mask I’d perfected after I lost everything.

But inside? My blood was boiling. Because this wasn’t just a greeting. This was a fucking message. A reminder. Chambers was a gatekeeper now—wearing a suit instead of gear—but still dangerous. One phone call, one word to the right guy at USA Hockey, and he could kill whatever chance I had left. Kill what Iris had, too.

He knew what I took from him. And he wore it like armor. Career ended. Knee fucked. Legacy stripped. All because of me. And he hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had I.

I forced a nod—tight, controlled. “Appreciate it,” I said, voice flat. No cracks. No weakness.

I could play this game too.

He leaned back like he owned the room—like he was holding court—flipping through his goddamn notes like this was just another day.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on potential Team USA players this season,” he said casually, but every word was a slow drag of a knife. “Iris Evans—she’s something special. Exactly what we’re looking for.”