Page 41

Knox

I woke up alone, sheets tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. The morning light cut through the blinds in jagged slats, slashing across the empty bed beside me. I blinked, the lingering haze of sleep doing nothing to stop the memories from slamming into me like a freight train.

Iris.

Her body beneath mine, her nails raking down my back, the way she gasped my name like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

The heat, the raw need, the way she fucking surrendered—it was all I could think about.

It owned me. And for a second, I let myself sink into it again, let the phantom touch of her skin drag me under.

But then it hit—the gut-punch realization that this wasn’t just about need anymore. This wasn’t just sex.

A tether had formed between us, tightening like a noose, suffocating in its intensity. I didn’t just want her. I needed her. And that thought? That need? It fucking terrified me.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, my knuckles still bruised from yesterday. Not from drills, not from any clean, controlled aggression on the ice—but from fighting myself. From trying to outrun the inevitability of her.

She wasn’t supposed to get under my skin like this. She was supposed to be a challenge, another body to push, another lesson in control. But now? Now she felt like the one thing I couldn’t control.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. My father’s words echoed in my head.

“Don’t break them.”

But I would. I already had.

Because no matter how hard I tried to fight it, no matter how deep I buried the truth—one thing had become brutally clear.

She wasn’t the one who was going to break.

I was.

I stepped into the shower, letting scalding water pound against my skin, hoping it could burn away the mess in my head. Steam curled around me, thick and suffocating, but not nearly as suffocating as the weight pressing against my ribs.

I glanced up, catching my reflection in the fogged-up mirror—red-rimmed eyes, a clenched jaw, exhaustion carved into every line of my face. I looked like him. Like my father.

Older than I should.

Burned out.

The realization made something bitter churn inside me, something I couldn’t fucking stomach. I dragged my hands over my face, scrubbing hard, as if I could scrape away the resemblance, strip myself of the legacy that had been forced onto my back since the moment I could hold a hockey stick.

But nothing washed away. Not the regret. Not the doubt. And sure as hell not Iris.

She was still there. Everywhere. Clinging to my skin like the steam filling the air. I could still feel her—the way her body fit against mine, the way she fucking surrendered, giving in even as she fought me every step of the way.

I let my forehead rest against the cool tile, breathing hard.

What the fuck was I doing?

The sharp buzz of my phone shattered the quiet. I exhaled roughly, stepping out and swiping it off the counter, already bracing for whatever shitstorm was waiting for me.

Coffee. 9 AM. Don’t bail.

Dad.

The words were short, clipped—same as always.

I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around the phone. Because it was never just coffee. It was a performance review. A lecture disguised as fatherly wisdom. A reminder that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I clawed my way back, I still wasn’t good enough.

I tossed the phone onto the counter and caught my reflection again.

The circles under my eyes, the tension carved into my jaw.

It wasn’t just him staring back at me anymore.

It was me. The version I’d been running from for years, the one that was starting to look too much like a man who never knew how to stop before everything fell apart.

Canceling wasn’t an option. Dad would just find another way to remind me who was in charge.

With a grimace, I yanked on jeans and a fitted shirt, running a hand through my damp hair before heading out. The cold morning air hit me like a slap, jolting me back into reality as I slid into my car.

I gripped the steering wheel, exhaling through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.

Today was going to be a battle. But when wasn’t it?

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white as I navigated the too-familiar route to River Styx. Every turn, every stretch of road felt like a slow drag toward something inevitable—a conversation I didn’t fucking want to have.

The cracked window let in the bite of morning air, sharp and cold, but it did nothing to shake the unease coiling tight in my gut. Every stoplight stretched longer than it should have, every passing second a taunt. Dragging me closer.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted his car—parked near the entrance, exactly where it always was. Like he owned the place. Like he was already settled in, waiting for me to show up and take whatever lecture he had prepped for today.

I exhaled hard and stepped inside.

The scent of burnt coffee and stale pastries hit me immediately—the stench of routine, of expectation. Of mornings spent in this same booth, having these same fucking talks.

I slid into the seat across from him. Coach Callahan. My father.

Back straight. Shoulders squared. Every inch of him a man who lived in control. He didn’t even look up right away, just kept his focus on the newspaper in front of him, fingers tapping absently against the coffee cup he nursed like it held something stronger.

“Knox.”

The way he said my name? A command. A reminder.

“You’re late.”

The words cut through the quiet, sharp and deliberate. A test.

I leaned back, forcing an easy expression, even though I felt the weight of his scrutiny pressing down. “Traffic.” The lie rolled off my tongue before I even thought about it.

He didn’t call me on it. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he folded the paper, set it aside, and finally met my eyes.

And just like that, the real fight started.

“We need to talk about Evans.”

A slow, heavy pulse of tension locked up my muscles at the mention of her name. Not about the team. Not about the season. About her.

My jaw tightened, but I kept my tone steady. “Yeah?”

He tapped a finger against his cup, emphasizing each word like they were part of some unspoken rule I was already breaking.

“She’s got potential.”

I already knew that.

“But you need to make sure she stays focused.”

And I already knew exactly what he meant.

Because he saw it. Maybe he didn’t have the full story yet, but he felt it—the way I was unraveling over her. And now?

Now he was giving me a warning.

Too fucking late.

I stared at my father—the man who had built me, broken me, and rebuilt me again—as he folded the newspaper and set it aside with deliberate precision. His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, like he could see straight through my bullshit before I even had a chance to spit it out.

“Knox,” he started, voice firm, carrying the weight of expectation. A challenge. A warning. “I see a lot in her. She’s got raw talent that could take her places if she harnesses it right.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing over my chest. Like I didn’t already know that. Like I hadn’t been watching her, pushing her, fucking wanting her with every ounce of my being.

“Her work ethic is impressive,” he went on, unwavering. “But you need to keep her locked in. Don’t let her get distracted by everything around her—especially that Langley kid.”

The words landed with a dull thud in my chest. I didn’t flinch, didn’t react, but the tension coiled tighter in my gut, winding like a spring ready to snap.

Before I could open my mouth, he leaned in, voice dropping to something lower, something sharper. “What’s the plan, Knox? What's next?"

I shrugged, grabbed my coffee, took a slow sip like I wasn’t coming apart at the seams. Like I had control. “This is next,” I muttered. “Helping out. Doing what I can.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His eyes narrowed, his disappointment settling into the space between us like a shadow. “This isn’t it. You’re not a coach. You’re not playing anymore. You’re just… floating.”

I set the cup down hard, the ceramic clanking against the table. A warning shot.

“You don’t even have a place,” he continued, unrelenting. “You’re living out of that rented house. No roots. No family.”

Each word hit its mark, slicing through the cracks I tried to ignore. He wasn’t just talking about hockey. He was talking about me—about the empty fucking void I hadn’t figured out how to fill.

“What are you doing?”

I clenched my jaw so tight I thought it might snap. Because I didn’t fucking know.

I wanted to fight back, to throw something in his face that would shut him up, but I had nothing. Because he was right.

And maybe that was why I had let Iris consume me—because focusing on her meant I didn’t have to look at the wreckage of my own life.

But this conversation? This moment?

It was forcing me to confront something even worse: I was already too far gone.

The words wrapped around my throat like a noose, tightening with every syllable. This was the fear. The thing that lurked in the shadows, waiting to sink its claws in.

Was I just the guy who peaked too fucking soon? The kid with raw talent but no direction? The name people used to remember before I faded into nothing?

“I’m fine,” I snapped, but it came out more like a plea than a fact. A lie I’d told so many times, I almost believed it myself.

Dad wasn’t buying it. He never did. He leaned forward, elbows bracing against the table, his eyes pinning me down like a trapped animal. Nowhere to run. “Are you? Because all I see is a man wasting his life.”

Each word landed like a gut punch, but he didn’t stop. He never stopped.

“What happens when you’re forty-five? Fifty? You still gonna be the guy chasing beers and picking fights in bars?”

Something inside me snapped. Because that? That fucking hit.