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Chapter twenty-four

Liam

M y phone’s buzzing before I’ve even finished my first cup of coffee. Six AM calls are never good news—they’re either someone’s dead or someone’s about to be.

I glance at the screen and my jaw clenches.

Coach Dawson.

Fuck me.

I’m still buzzing from last night. Still tasting Katarina on my lips, still feeling the ghost of her mouth wrapped around my cock. The way she looked up at me with those storm-gray eyes while she sucked me like her life depended on it—Christ, I nearly lost it right there in her hallway.

Then I had to go and ruin it by walking away like a damn asshole.

“Coach,” I answer, not bothering to hide the gravel in my voice.

“What the hell are you doing, son?”

Straight to the point. No pleasantries. That’s Dawson for you.

“Drinking coffee. What’s it to you?”

“Cut the shit, Liam. I saw the photos from last night. You and that blonde at some fancy restaurant, looking real cozy.”

My blood chills. Of course, the fucking photos.

“It’s not—”

“What I think it is?” Dawson’s laugh cuts through me. “Kid, I’ve been around this game longer than you’ve been alive. I know a distraction when I see one.”

I set my mug down, the sound echoes through my empty kitchen. “Katarina’s hardley a distraction.”

Even as I say it, I know it’s bullshit. She’s the biggest goddamn distraction I’ve ever had. I can’t think straight when she’s around. Can’t focus on anything but the way her ass looks in those scrubs or how she bites her lip when she’s thinking.

“Really? Because word is you’ve been sniffing around the team nutritionist like a dog in heat. That sound professional to you?”

“Watch how you talk about her.”

“Or what?” His voice turns sharp. “You’ll what, exactly? Throw another classic Liam tantrum? Get yourself benched for the season before it even starts?”

The words hit hard. Fucker knows exactly where to aim to do maximum damage.

“This is your last shot, Liam. Your last fucking chance to prove you belong in this league. Are you really gonna piss it away chasing some piece of ass?”

My hand tightens around the phone until I hear it creak. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Tell you the truth? Every team in the league knows you’re one bad day away from washing out. You think they’re gonna give you another chance if you screw this up?”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I can’t say. That maybe I’m tired of being his pet project. That maybe I want something real for once in my fucked-up life.

“She’s different,” I say finally.

“They’re all different until they’re not.” Dawson’s voice softens, turns almost paternal. “Look, I get it. She’s pretty, probably smart. Makes you feel like you’re more than just a body checking machine. But feelings don’t win championships, kid. Feelings don’t pay the bills.”

My breakfast tastes like sawdust now. I push the plate away.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need to choose. Her or hockey. Because right now, you can’t have both.”

The line goes dead.

I sit there staring at my phone, Coach’s words echoing in my skull like a broken record. Choose. Like it’s that simple. Like I haven’t been choosing hockey over everything else my entire goddamn life.

But for the first time, I’m not sure hockey’s enough anymore.

Practice is a shitshow. disguised as skill development.

I’m off my game, missing passes I could make blindfolded, taking hits I should see coming from a mile away. My head’s not in it, and everyone knows it.

Coach Barnes has us running three-on-two rushes, and I’m playing like I’ve never seen a puck before. My passes are tape-to-tape with the wrong fucking tape. My shots are finding every piece of the net except the back of it.

“Steele!” Barnes’ voice cracks like a whip. “You skating in cement today?”

I’d just fanned on a one-timer that should’ve been automatic. The kind of shot I’ve buried a thousand times, the kind that pays my mortgage. Instead, the puck dribbles off my blade like a wounded duck.

Callahan shakes his head, not even trying to hide his disgust. “Come on, man. My grandmother could’ve finished that.”

The chirping starts immediately. It’s like blood in the water.

“Maybe pretty boy needs his nutritionist to hold his stick for him,” Marcus calls out.

My jaw clenches. My gloves tighten. Every instinct screams to drop them right here, show these fuckers what happens when they run their mouths.

But I don’t. Because that’s exactly what they’re waiting for. Proof that I’m the headcase they’ve heard about.

“Again!” Barnes barks. “And this time, Steele, try playing like you actually want to be here.”

The next rush comes fast. Aiden carries it up center, two defenders collapsing on him. I’m alone in the slot, stick on the ice, calling for it. The pass comes hard and perfect.

This time, I don’t think. Just react. Pure muscle memory and ten thousand hours of repetition.

One-timer. Top shelf. Bar down. The ping of rubber off metal echoes through the arena like a gunshot.

“There’s the player we traded for!” Barnes shouts. “Do it again!”

But the relief only lasts a second.

Because I know the truth—my head’s still fucked. Still thinking about her instead of hockey. Still choosing between the life I’ve bled for and the woman who makes me forget why I ever wanted it.

“Steele!” Coach Barnes’ voice cuts across the ice like a blade. “What the fuck was that?”

I’d just whiffed on an easy shot, sending the puck sailing wide of an empty net. Rookie mistake. The kind of mistake that gets you sent down to the minors.

“Sorry, Coach.”

“Sorry doesn’t win games.” He skates over, getting in my face. “You been partying? Drinking? What’s your malfunction?”

The guys are watching now. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting to see if I’ll blow up. If I’ll give them another reason to write me off as a fucked up headcase.

“I’m good,” I lie.

“Bullshit. Hit the showers. You’re done for today.”

The walk of shame to the locker room feels like it takes forever. I can hear the whispers starting before I even clear the ice.

Water scalds my shoulders, but none of it reaches the part of me that’s unraveling.

Coach Dawson’s words keep looping in my head like a fucking mantra.

‘Choose .’

By the time I’m dressed and heading out, I’ve made my decision. It’s the smart play. The safe play.

The only play I’ve got left.

I’m halfway to my car when I see her.

Katarina’s waiting by the exit, looking like sin in a lab coat. Her hair’s pulled back in one of those messy buns that makes me want to bury my fingers in it and mess it up even more. When she spots me, her face lights up—and fuck if that doesn’t make this ten times harder.

“Hey,” she says, stepping into my path. “How was practice?”

“Fine.”

The word comes out clipped, cold. I see her flinch, but I don’t soften it.

“You sure? You seem—”

“What, Katarina? I seem what?”

She takes a step back, and I hate myself for the way her face shutters. “Upset. Angry. I don’t know, just... not yourself.”

“Maybe this is myself. Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

It’s a low blow, and we both know it. The hurt that flashes across her face nearly breaks me.

“Liam, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know anymore.

“You want to know what’s wrong?” I step closer, backing her against the wall. “What’s wrong is that I can’t think straight when you’re around. What’s wrong is that I’m more worried about your feelings than my fucking career.”

Her breath catches. “That’s not—”

“It is.” I lean in, close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to remember how she tasted last night. “You’re a distraction, Kat. And I can’t afford distractions.”

“So what are you saying?”

The words stick in my throat like broken glass. But Coach Dawson’s voice is louder than my conscience.

“I’m saying this—whatever this is—it’s over. The fake dating, the dinners, all of it. I’ve got a career to think about. And this optics bullshit is only destroying me”

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her building walls in real time. The same walls I’ve watched crumble these last few weeks.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

Just like that. No fight, no tears, no begging me to reconsider. Just okay.

It should feel like a relief.

Instead, it feels like I just took a skate blade to the chest.

I turn and walk away before I can take it back.

Before I grab her and tell her I’m fucking drowning without her. That her voice in my ear and her mouth on me last night is the only thing I’ve thought about since the second I left.

Before I admit that I’ve never wanted anything this badly in my entire goddamn life—and that terrifies the hell out of me.

She makes me soft in all the places I’ve kept stitched shut. And the second I let that softness show, I know this league will eat me alive.

I tell myself walking away is the smart move. That if I just keep my head down, grind it out, win games and keep quiet, I’ll earn the spot I bled for.

Coach thinks it’s about hockey.

But deep down I know the truth. Hell, maybe I want to believe it is too. Maybe I let everyone think I’m chasing clean lines and the cold structure of the game. That I’d rather lace up than unravel. That the future I bled for is still the only thing that matters.

But I know better. The truth is quieter. Meaner.

I’m not walking away for hockey.

I’m walking away because whatever this is—this thing with her— it’s already under my skin.

And if I stay, I won’t just want her.

I’ll need her.

And that kind of need doesn’t just end seasons.

It ends players.

So I turn and walk. Not because I’m strong.

But because I’m scared of how fucking weak she makes me.

And I don’t look back.

Champions don’t look back.

Even when it fucking kills them.