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I felt the hit like a punch to the ribs. Not about her. About me.

Grit gets you to the top—until you fuck up. Until you snap and cross the line. Until you become the guy they whisper about instead of the guy they celebrate.

And anyone standing too close?

They went down with you.

Iris.

Too fucking close.

I could feel the eyes in the room—my father’s steady, Chambers’ sharp. But all I felt was that sinking dread—the one that settled in my gut the day they took my jersey away. Except now, it wasn’t just my career on the line.

It was hers.

Chambers was still talking, spitting out his little sermon about what made a real player—heart, pressure, stability. All those buzzwords that sounded good in press conferences but meant jack shit when you were bleeding on the ice.

“Some players crumble under pressure. They just… lose it.” He let it hang—like he was carving it into my chest. His eyes found mine—quick, deliberate—before shifting back to my dad.

He was talking about me. About the hit. About the fight that ended his career. About the ref hit.

But all I saw was her. Taking every goddamn slapshot. Slamming into the boards. Getting back up every time like she was made of steel and spite.

She wasn’t going to crumble.

Not on my fucking watch.

But none of that mattered if Chambers decided to pull her under just to get to me.

I swallowed the fury crawling up my throat. Kept my mouth shut. Fists balled under the table so tight my nails bit into my palms.

I had to be smart. Couldn’t punch my way through this. Couldn’t lose it like last time. But the thought of Iris—working her ass off, sweating, fighting—only to have her shot ripped away because of me? Because of my fucking name?

It made me sick. Made me want to break something. Made me want to put Chambers back on the ice and finish what I started.

But I didn’t.

Because this was war. And this time, I had more to lose.

Iris didn’t know it yet. But she needed protecting. And I was the only one who could keep her safe. Even if I was the danger wrapped around her throat. Even if I was the reason her dreams might burn. I’d protect her. Even if it killed me. Even if she fucking hated me for it.

The meeting wrapped, but the tension didn’t break. It sat there, heavy, coiled around my ribs like barbed wire. Chambers was gone, but he’d left his mark—his smirk still burned into my vision like a goddamn scar.

And I felt it—my father’s eyes on me, cutting straight through my skin. Seeing everything. The clench of my jaw. The fists under the table. The fucking storm he knew was brewing in my chest.

I didn’t want this conversation. But it was coming. Like a goddamn freight train.

“Knox.”

Coach Callahan’s voice was low, steady—but there was steel under it. The kind that didn’t bend. The kind that said,Don’t fuck this up.

Everyone else was filing out, polite nods and handshakes, but we stayed. Just the two of us, standing in the ruins of whatever respect I had left. He stepped closer, shoulders squared—not quite a father, not quite a coach. Somewhere in between. Somewhere that always felt like judgment.

“Whatever that was? Bury it.” The words hit like a check to the chest. “You’re here to clean up your name, not make it worse.”

My jaw locked so tight I thought my teeth might crack. My name. It always came back to my fucking name. My mistakes. My mess.

Never Chambers’ bullshit. Never the way that smug asshole baited me on the ice until we were both bleeding. Never the broken ribs I played through.