Page 3

Knox

I watched her skate away, sharp and fast, like she was carving her name into the fucking ice.

I should’ve looked away.

Should’ve let her go.

But I didn’t.

Her last glance over her shoulder hit me like a blade to the ribs.

Cool. Defiant.

Daring me to push harder.

It was nothing.

It should’ve been nothing.

But it was still crawling under my skin, hot and tight, settling somewhere deep in my chest like an itch I already knew I’d be chasing all season.

Iris Evans.

Daddy’s perfect little star.

The future of Team USA.

The girl I was supposed to shape into something better.

Or maybe the girl I was supposed to break.

Her strawberry blonde hair snapped behind her in that high ponytail—too clean, too polished—like everything about her.

But I’d seen the crack today.

Felt it when I pinned her to the boards, and she shoved back instead of folding.

That look she gave me?

It wasn’t fear.

It was a fucking challenge.

And it was all I could think about.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the boards, arms crossed, jaw tight—pretending I wasn’t tracking every step she took toward the locker room.

Her posture was straight, proud—but I knew better.

I knew she was still feeling me.

Still hearing my voice in her ear.

Still wearing the weight of me pressing her into the glass.

I almost let her go.

But then—because I couldn’t fucking help myself—I let my voice cut through the rink. Low. Sharp. Meant for her and only her.

“Nice moves, Evans.”

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

Just pulled her shoulders back tighter like she was made of steel.

But I saw the pause.

Saw the tension crawl up her spine.

And I fucking grinned.

Because I was in there now.

Right under her skin.

Same place she was in me.

Most players would’ve cracked today.

Would’ve let me crush them under my weight and walked away scared.

But not her.

She fought.

And it made me want to push her harder.

To see what else I could pull out of her.

See if I could break her—or if she’d come back stronger.

I pushed off the boards, taking a slow step forward, eyes still on the door where she’d disappeared.

My pulse was still jacked from practice.

Or maybe just from her.

So fucking young. A baby.

And this season?

It wasn’t just about riding out my sentence under my dad’s thumb anymore.

It was about her.

About seeing how far I could push her—before she shattered.

Or maybe before I fucking did.

Either way, this was just the beginning.

And I wasn’t letting her off the ice anytime soon.

The sound of blades scraping against ice behind me set my teeth on edge. I knew who it was before I turned. The weight of him—of his fucking expectations—always felt heavier than anyone else’s.

“Knox.”

Low. Controlled.

But I heard the warning underneath.

I didn’t bother pretending I wasn’t expecting it.

Just turned, jaw tight, arms crossed over my chest.

Coach Callahan.

Dad.

Same fucking thing.

“Watch it,” he said, eyes cold, voice clipped.

I snorted. “What? She can take it.”

“She’s not used to that kind of pressure.”

That coach voice—like I was just another player, not his son.

Like he hadn’t been lecturing me my entire life.

“I know you think you’re helping, but you’re pushing her too hard.”

I laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “If she breaks because of me, she shouldn’t be here.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not your call.”

I stepped forward, shoulders squaring instinctively. We’d been doing this dance since I was fifteen. Except now, we were both older—and I had a hell of a lot more scars.

“If you want me here, I’m doing it my way,” I said. “I’m not here to babysit your future star.”

He sighed—the kind that said he was tired of me, tired of this—tired of cleaning up my messes. I'd heard it all before.

“You’re not here to prove something,” he said.

I scoffed. “Prove what? That I’m not a washed-up psycho who took himself out of the game?”

“You know why you’re here,” he shot back, eyes narrowing.

There it was—the Team USA shadow.

Always hanging over both of us.

“I’m here because you needed a favor,” I said. Cold. Cutting. And we both knew it was true. “I’m here because you don’t want anyone else knowing your son’s a fucking liability.”

His lips pressed together—because I hit the mark.

“I’m here,” I bit out, “to help. And I will. But I’m not gonna fucking hold her hand. If she can’t take the hit, she doesn’t belong.” His voice dropped lower—the real dad voice now. The one he only ever used when shit was serious. “And if you hurt her?”

I stepped closer—daring him to say it louder. “If she can’t handle it, she shouldn’t be playing hockey,” I snapped.

The words shot out before I could stop them, louder than I meant.

But I meant every fucking syllable.

“This sport’s not for princesses,” I added, leaning in, low and venomous.

He didn’t flinch.

He never did.

But his eyes hardened like steel. Like he was disappointed, but also like he expected nothing less.

“You’re jealous,” he said.

The word cracked against me like a slap to the face.

I froze.

Felt it burn through my chest like acid—because he wasn’t wrong, was he?

Jealous of her .

Jealous of her shot.

Jealous that she still had everything I fucking lost.

Jealous that she still had his respect.

“Don’t put that shit on me,” I growled.

But I sounded like I was lying—even to myself.

He shook his head slowly, that tired look settling in again. Like he’d already decided I was beyond fixing. “I just want you to see what you’re doing,” he said quietly.

The thing was—I did see. I saw it too fucking clearly.

I was pushing her because I wanted to see her break.

Because if she broke, then maybe I wasn’t the only failure.

And if she didn’t?

Maybe I’d finally found someone who could survive the kind of pressure that destroyed me.

But I didn’t say any of that.

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.

His project.

The player he wished he’d raised instead of me.

Sharp. Precise. Controlled.

Like she was carved straight from his blueprint.

But I’d seen something else under all that polish today.

A crack.

A spark.

When I slammed her into the boards, expecting her to crumble, she fucking shoved back. And it lit something inside me that I didn’t like.

Or maybe I liked it too much.

I gripped my stick tighter, skating faster—breathing harder—trying to lose that thought.

Because that spark?

That fight?

I wanted to drag it out of her. Again and again.

I wanted to push her until she broke.

Or until she proved she wouldn’t.

Until she showed me something real—something raw—something that wasn’t just my father’s dream wrapped up in a Crestwood jersey.

Something that was mine, that no one could touch, that no one could take away.

I circled the far end of the rink, the ice biting under my blades, the ache in my muscles nothing compared to the one in my chest.

I was alone—but it didn’t feel like solitude. It felt like punishment.

Because this place?

It reminded me of what I lost. Of why I didn’t belong here anymore. Why I didn’t belong anywhere.

And now she was here—Iris Evans, with her fucking fire and her sharp edges—and suddenly, it felt like I was back in the game.

Not for my dad.

Not for redemption.

For her.

To see if I could break her.

Or maybe just to see if she’d survive me.

I told myself I hated her for it.

The perfect little project.

The future.

While I was just the past.

She was the player he wanted—the one he was betting everything on. And every time I saw her skate, every time I heard his voice laced with pride when he said her name—it gutted me. It was like he was looking at the son he wished he had.

So yeah, I told myself I hated her.

But that was a lie.

Or at least, it wasn’t the whole truth.

Because every time I closed my eyes, I felt her against me. The weight of her body pinned under mine. The tension in her muscles as she shoved back. The sound of her breath catching—sharp, angry—right before she snapped at me.

It was still in my fucking veins.

She didn’t crumble.

She fought me.

And something in me—something ugly and starved—wanted more.

More of that defiance.