Page 49

Iris

I felt drained as I trudged out of the rink, my legs heavy with fatigue.

Practice had been brutal—Knox pushing us harder than ever, his eyes burning into me like a brand.

Every drill felt like a fight against the weight of his gaze and the expectations that suffocated me.

Chambers was lurking near the boards, his presence a constant reminder of everything that could unravel in an instant.

The whispers from Brooke still echoed in my ears, her playful taunts twisting into something more sinister. It hadn’t been just harmless banter; it had been a warning. And I hated how much it unsettled me.

I needed to escape the chaos of the rink.

It no longer felt like my sanctuary—it felt like a battlefield where every smile could hide a dagger and every cheer masked anxiety.

My teammates might have been laughing, but I knew they sensed it too—the tension hanging thick in the air, ready to snap at any moment.

As I walked toward my car, I craved home—the warmth of familiar walls, the smell of Dad’s cooking filling the air, the way he always made sure I felt safe and supported. Home was where I could forget about Knox’s possessive grip and Chambers’ predatory gaze, even if only for a moment.

But with every step, I wondered if that place still existed for me. My heart raced as memories flooded back—Knox’s lips on mine, his hands gripping me like he never wanted to let go. The thrill mixed with dread; how could I go back to normal when everything inside me screamed for him?

I leaned against my car, trying to breathe through the exhaustion gnawing at me.

A part of me knew I’d have to face it again—the weight of their expectations and my own desires crashing together like waves against rocks.

And in that moment, I realized: there would be no simple return to safety—not while Knox Callahan held my heart so tightly in his grasp.

I drove home, my thoughts swirling like snowflakes dancing outside my window in winter.

Each turn felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the lingering tension from practice.

Knox’s voice echoed in my mind, pushing me harder, demanding more—both on and off the ice.

I tried to shake it off, to focus on the familiar sights of our small town, but nothing felt normal anymore.

As I walked through the front door, the warmth of home enveloped me, but the moment I stepped into the kitchen, that warmth turned cold. Chris was sitting at the table with Dad, laughing like he’d always belonged there.

My dad looked tired as usual, his sunken eyes hidden beneath his messy hair. He wore his well-loved windbreaker and cradled a cup of coffee that was more habit than necessity. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed for once, sharing a joke with Chris that made both of them chuckle heartily.

Seeing them together should have brought me comfort; after all, Dad had been my rock ever since Mom packed her bags and left without a backward glance.

He stayed through everything—the heartbreak and disappointment—and gave me a shot at my dreams. The thought of Team USA loomed large in my mind as something tangible, something possible because of him.

But instead of comfort, a tight knot formed in my chest. It felt suffocating watching Chris laugh so easily with Dad as if they were old friends while I stood there feeling like an outsider in my own home.

I had spent so much time trying to keep up appearances—being good enough for everyone—but now it felt like I was losing ground.

“Hey, Iris!” Chris called out cheerfully as he turned toward me.

I forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Hey.”

“Just talking about your last practice,” he said, excitement lacing his voice.

I nodded absently while wishing desperately for a moment alone to collect myself. I could feel Dad's gaze shifting between us—curious and slightly concerned—as if he sensed that something wasn’t right. But how could I explain? How could I tell him that I felt like I was straddling two worlds?

My dad's eyes softened when he saw me, the stern Coach hat slipping away as he shifted into Dad mode. “Knox pushing you pretty hard out there, huh?”

I froze. I heard it wrong; I had to have. My mind spiraled to the way Knox pushed me—not just on the ice but in every way that mattered. It was more than just drills and demands; it was about possession, intensity, a fire that ignited between us and threatened to consume everything else.

But my dad was just worried about my health. About my future. About that damn jersey I wanted so desperately.

I tried to play it cool, shrugging off his concern like it didn’t matter. “I’m fine,” I said, but before I could explain or justify anything further, Chris jumped in.

“Honestly, Coach, I’ve been a little worried about it too.

” His tone shifted slightly—an edge laced beneath his concern—as if he were testing the waters of my relationship with Knox.

“She’s been limping. That slapshot to her skate?

Knox didn’t let up at all after that. Seems like he’s… singling her out.”

My heart raced at his words. Singling me out? It felt like a knife twisted in my gut as if he’d ripped open what I tried so hard to keep hidden from everyone—including myself. Did Chris suspect something more? Or was this just his way of looking out for me?

I opened my mouth to defend Knox—to tell them both that he was pushing me because he believed in me—but the words caught in my throat. How could I explain that the intensity felt right even when it terrified me? That Knox’s demand for perfection came wrapped in a darkness I craved?

Dad leaned forward, brows furrowing with concern as he scanned my face for answers. “You sure you’re okay?” His voice softened further as if sensing my internal struggle.

“Yeah,” I managed finally, but the conviction behind it felt weak and hollow—even to me.

"I don't know," Chris said. "I feel like there's a target on her back. I don't get what Callahan's deal is with her. Maybe he's jealous of Iris's potential after he threw his own career away."

“Are you sure you’re all right, kiddo? I can talk to him. If he’s going too far—” Dad’s voice cut through my thoughts like ice.

Panic surged through me. No. That couldn’t happen. Knox was already walking a tightrope with his emotions—if my dad stepped in, it would shatter whatever fragile connection we had built. Knox would pull away completely, and I couldn't bear that thought.

“I’m fine, Dad. He’s just… pushing me to be better.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could think them through, but I clung to them desperately. It was true—Knox was relentless, but it felt like more than that. He saw something in me that I was still trying to grasp for myself.

My dad studied me closely, searching for any hint of hesitation or discomfort in my expression. Finally, he nodded slowly and let it go for now, but I could feel the weight of his concern still hovering over us.

Chris didn’t look convinced. His gaze lingered on me as if he’d just confirmed something unspoken between us—like he owned a piece of this complicated puzzle that I hadn’t fully shared with anyone yet. It made my skin crawl and my heart race.

“What exactly is he pushing you on?” Chris asked, his tone casual but probing.

“Just drills,” I replied too quickly, trying to dismiss the question while heat crept up my neck. “He thinks I need to work on my speed.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by my half-hearted explanation. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? If he’s pushing too hard?—”

“No,” I cut him off sharply, perhaps too sharply for comfort. “I can handle it.”

There was an edge in my voice that surprised even me; frustration and fear blended into one fierce response that left Chris momentarily speechless.

"All right then," my father said, standing up. "I'll be off to bed."

He dad hugged me goodnight, his calloused hands wrapping around me like a shield.

I could feel the weight of his tired eyes, searching mine for any hint of trouble.

The man who stayed through my mother’s departure, the one who fought for my dreams even when it seemed like all was lost. He deserved better than the worry etched into his face.

“I just want you to be happy, Iris. That’s all.” His voice cracked slightly, and I felt the lump in my throat swell. I wanted to assure him that I was happy—that every bruise and ache from practice meant I was on the right path. But as I pulled away from his embrace, a knot twisted in my stomach.

Once he turned and walked down the hall, the air shifted in the room. It felt charged—heavy with unspoken words and expectations left lingering in the silence.

Chris didn’t move from his chair at the kitchen table; he just watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

Like a predator.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“You and I need to talk.” His voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.

I crossed my arms defensively, trying to mask my anxiety as he leaned forward slightly.

“What’s there to talk about?” My tone came out sharper than intended, but I didn’t care.

My heart raced; every instinct screamed at me to deflect, to escape whatever confrontation was brewing beneath Chris’s calm exterior.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest while keeping those keen eyes locked on me. “You know what I mean.”

A tightness settled in my chest as I swallowed hard. Part of me wanted to brush it off—pretend everything was fine—but I couldn’t shake off that sinking feeling that he had seen more than he should have. That our easy friendship was about to fracture under pressure neither of us had anticipated.

“Look,” he said slowly, his voice measured but urgent. “You can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening.”

I waited. He clearly had more to say.