Page 5

Iris

T he kitchen smelled of sautéed garlic and something bubbling softly on the stove.

I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, the ache in my muscles creeping in after practice.

My legs throbbed, each pulse a reminder of the relentless drills Knox had thrown us into.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the familiar sounds of home wash over me—the soft clinking of pots and pans, my dad humming to himself as he cooked.

I opened my eyes to see Coach Mike Evans moving about the kitchen with his usual grace.

His hands moved deftly, chopping vegetables like he was orchestrating a play on the ice.

The framed photo on the wall caught my eye—me at twelve, beaming with pride after making the Triple A Pee Wee Team.

The only girl surrounded by boys twice my size.

My dad had held me high that day, grinning like I’d just won gold.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught me staring.

“Long day?” he asked, a hint of amusement lighting up his tired features.

“Just practice,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice light even though frustration simmered beneath.

I shifted in my seat, eyeing the old USA Hockey jersey hanging by the door.

Faded and worn but still held a kind of reverence in our house—a relic from Dad’s junior days that told stories of sweat and triumph.

Just like everything else here—each piece a testament to sacrifice, discipline, and dreams both lived and lost.

The weight settled between us like an unspoken truth; Mom's absence lingered in every quiet moment at dinner. She used to bring laughter into these spaces, filling them with warmth and teasing banter that had faded since she left us.

Dad set the table with practiced ease, placing a steaming bowl of pasta in front of me.

The aroma of garlic and herbs mingled with the rich scent of marinara sauce, making my stomach growl despite the tension coiling inside me.

He ladled a generous portion onto my plate; the noodles glistening under the kitchen light, topped with fresh basil and a sprinkle of Parmesan that melted slightly from the heat.

“Dig in,” he said, sliding into his chair across from me.

I twirled a forkful of pasta, forcing myself to take a bite as he watched me expectantly.

“How’s conditioning?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Puck battles looking good?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Same as always.”

But Knox’s face invaded my thoughts—his smirk, that taunting voice daring me to fight harder. I didn’t want to talk about him.

“Don’t be modest,” Dad pressed, leaning forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You’ve got grit, Iris. I’ve seen you push through tougher practices than most.”

“Yeah,” I replied, picking at my food now. “It’s just… practice.”

He nodded but didn’t let it go.

“How’s Callahan working out with you girls? I heard he was sent to help with the off-ice training and conditioning.”

My stomach twisted like someone had yanked on a string inside me. Knox was already threading into this space—this sanctuary that used to feel so safe. His name hung in the air like smoke from an extinguished candle, tainting everything around it.

I swallowed hard and forced a laugh. “He’s just... there.”

Dad raised an eyebrow, his tone shifting to something almost reverent.

“You know his history, right? Tough kid—made quite a name for himself before all that mess with the refs.” The admiration in Dad's voice twisted like barbed wire around my chest. He continued, unaware of how each word pierced deeper.

“He fought hard for that jersey, earned every bruise along the way.”

Yeah, well, now he wanted to give me some bruises too.

I picked at my pasta again, feeling like a fish caught in a net—trapped between wanting to defend myself and hating that I even had to think about him at all in this moment.

I twirled my fork through the pasta, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. Dad had this way of talking about players like they were heroes, even when their stories ended in disaster.

“Callahan was a hell of a player before the ref hit,” he said, waving his fork around as if that would add emphasis. “That kid bled for the jersey. Played with heart. We need more of that.”

I froze, the bite I’d been about to take hanging in mid-air. Heart? That was what Knox called it when he shoved me into the boards, leaving me breathless and humiliated. It felt less like passion and more like a threat—a warning to step up or get crushed under his weight.

“Yeah, he’s… intense,” I managed, forcing a casual tone despite the tremor in my voice.

Dad nodded, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “A little out of control, if you ask me.” He chuckled softly as if Knox’s reckless abandon was nothing more than a quirk.

“Right.” I twirled another strand of pasta around my fork, but my appetite vanished. The bite sat heavy on my tongue as I thought about Knox’s gaze—sharp and piercing as he pinned me against those boards. He hadn’t just tested my skills; he’d probed something deeper.

“I know you’re used to pressure,” Dad continued, still lost in his thoughts about Knox. “But don’t let him get into your head.”

I wanted to scream that it was too late for that—Knox Callahan had already wormed his way inside and settled there like an unwelcome guest. My skin still tingled from our collision on the ice; every moment since had only amplified the confusion roiling in my gut.

“You know how coaches are,” I said, forcing a smile while pushing food around my plate. “They have their favorites.”

Dad leaned back, eyeing me with concern mixed with pride. “Just don’t let anyone shake your confidence, Iris. You’ve worked too hard for that.”

His words dripped with sincerity, but they only fueled the tightness in my chest—the fear that one day someone might make me question everything I’d built myself up to be.

I pushed the pasta around my plate, trying to absorb my dad’s words.

“And sometimes that’s what it takes. You want Team USA? You have to want it more than the girl next to you. Callahan understood that.”

I nodded, forcing a smile as if his praise meant something solid. But inside, I churned. Because tougher felt like bruises on my ribs, the sharp edges of his body pressing into mine when he pinned me against the boards. It was a reminder of just how close he’d come—too close for comfort.

“Knox will make you tougher,” he continued, pride lacing his tone. "Your skill is superb, Iris. But you need that brute physicality. He'll help with that."

Tougher? I bit my lip, trying to suppress the memories of our first encounter on the ice—the heat of his breath brushing against my neck, sending jolts of confusion straight through me.

My heart raced for reasons I didn’t want to explore.

Adrenaline from competition should have fueled me, but this was different; it stirred something raw and unsettling.

“Right,” I replied, still stirring my food as if it could somehow dull the images flooding my mind.

His eyes sparkled with that familiar blend of encouragement and expectation. “He’ll push you to be better than ever.”

I wanted to tell him that Knox’s version of better involved a level of aggression that rattled me—a ruthless side I wasn’t sure I could handle. Every time I thought about it, I felt those bruises settle deeper beneath my skin.

Dad went on about Knox’s career like he was recounting a heroic tale, but all I could focus on were the moments from practice—the laughter from teammates ringing in my ears as Knox stepped back after our battle with that smirk on his face.

The mix of humiliation and respect twisted in my gut like a knot that refused to loosen.

“Just keep your head in the game,” Dad said softly, a knowing look crossing his face.

But how could I? Every time Knox crossed my mind, he broke through layers of composure I’d spent years building up like armor against distraction and doubt. The tension between us crackled in ways I couldn’t begin to comprehend or control.

“I will,” I finally said, though even as the words left my mouth, uncertainty settled like lead in my stomach.

Dad leaned back in his chair, the warmth from the kitchen light casting shadows across his face. His expression turned serious, and I felt the weight of his gaze settle on me like a thick blanket. “You’ve got what it takes, Iris. But you have to want it. You have to let them push you.”

His words hung in the air, echoing against the walls that had witnessed so many conversations just like this one.

There was no cruelty in his tone—just raw encouragement that pressed against my chest. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

He wasn’t wrong; I’d worked my whole life for this moment—the pride I saw reflected in him was everything I’d ever wanted.

“I know it’s tough,” he continued, his voice softening slightly. “I know I’m hard on you sometimes, but… I see you. I know you’re special. Much better than my high school players.”

Special. That word wrapped around me like a tight hug but also tightened the knot in my stomach. It was what fueled every early morning practice, every sacrifice I’d made over the years—everything I wanted him to believe about me.

But now, that dream felt tangled up with Knox Callahan and the storm he brought with him. The challenge he represented sat heavy on my shoulders, like a weight threatening to drag me under when all I'd ever known was how to stay afloat.

I forced a smile, but my heart pounded against my ribs like a drumbeat—a reminder of Knox’s presence lingering in my mind.

“I know, Dad.” The words slipped out, light enough to hide the confusion swirling inside me.

But deep down? I didn’t know anymore. The passion that once burned bright now flickered under shadows of doubt and intimidation. Would pushing harder really bring me closer to Team USA? Or would it push me further away from everything that felt safe?

After dinner, I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor.

The sound pulled me back into reality as I gathered my plate and utensils, slipping into the familiar rhythm of washing dishes.

The warm water rushed over my hands, and I focused on the suds, scrubbing away remnants of pasta and sauce while my mind tried to escape.

With each plate I cleaned, I aimed to lose myself in the mundane task—the swirls of bubbles and the glint of silverware becoming my only concern. The repetitive motion calmed me for a moment, letting me forget about practice and Knox’s relentless presence.

But as I dried my hands on a dish towel, his name echoed in my thoughts again.

I shook my head as if it would physically shake him out of there. No use pretending everything was fine when it felt like he had carved a place in my mind that refused to budge.

Once the last dish dried on the rack, I slipped away to my room.

The door clicked shut behind me, shutting out the world.

My gear lay in the corner—my helmet and pads scattered like armor waiting for battle, airing out.

I didn't think I sweated that much from a practice, and that said something.

My stick leaned against the wall nearby, its surface worn but still sturdy like a weapon ready for war.

I took a deep breath and pulled out my phone. Thumbing through contacts, I landed on Jenna’s name. We always joked around after practice; she’d know how to lighten things up.

Hey! Can’t believe Callahan thinks he can push us around. LOL.

I hit send and stared at the screen, willing her response to come quickly. But as minutes ticked by without a reply, that sense of normalcy slipped through my fingers like ice melting under pressure.

Friends were hard to come by when I lived and breathed hockey. Even players on the team didn’t revolve their life around it the way I did.

Knox lingered at the edge of my thoughts—the weight of his body against mine along those boards still burned hot in memory. His eyes had held something intense when I pushed back—something that sent a jolt through me and left me questioning everything.

What did he see? A rival? A challenge? Or was it something deeper?

I groaned and tossed my phone onto the bed, running a hand through my hair as frustration swelled within me again. Nothing felt right; every attempt at distraction only brought him back into focus—his smirk haunting every corner of my mind.

I hated that I was thinking about him. But no matter how hard I tried, Knox Callahan crept into my thoughts like a shadow, dark and unavoidable. His smirk lingered in my mind, taunting me even when I closed my eyes.

I considered calling Jeremy. He’d been a fling from those early midget hockey days—nothing serious, just a distraction for both of us when the pressures of the sport got too heavy.

We used each other for physical release, and he’d been my first and only.

Having Jeremy meant I didn't have to worry about boyfriends or crushes or anything like that.

It was supposed to be simple, but once I got to Crestwood and focused on my game, those late-night texts fizzled out until they were nothing more than echoes.

But now?

The idea of him felt like an anchor in the swirling storm that was Knox. Jeremy wouldn’t challenge me; he wouldn’t push me like Knox did with that rough edge I couldn’t shake off. Maybe that’s what made me think of him in this moment—a lifeline to something safe and familiar.

A safe way to get release.

But it wasn’t just safety that called to me now; it was something deeper, something dangerous. Something that looked a hell of a lot like Knox Callahan.

I wanted to make Dad proud. That mantra pulsed through me like a heartbeat, steady and strong.

Every drill, every early morning on the ice—it was all for him, for the years he’d poured into coaching and guiding me toward Team USA.

But now another voice whispered in the back of my mind: What if I wanted something else too?

I bit my lip as frustration mounted inside me again. Dad thought Knox would make me tougher. Maybe he was right—maybe I needed someone to challenge me outside the lines of practice—to throw me off balance until I found my footing again.

But tough girls bled too.

That thought hung there like an uninvited guest at the back of my mind—a reminder that strength could come with scars, both visible and hidden. Each moment spent reliving our battle along the boards felt like an invitation to cross some line I hadn’t yet dared approach.

I shook my head again as if doing so would banish Knox from my thoughts entirely. The weight of those feelings pressed against me—a mix of curiosity and irritation swirling together until it felt suffocating.

Until I couldn't breathe anything but him.