Page 6

Knox

T he morning light cut through the blinds like a blade, slicing across my face, dragging me out of another restless, fucked-up excuse for sleep.

I shoved the covers off, heat and frustration twisting through my chest like barbed wire. My skin felt tight—like I was still buzzing from last night, from her.

Iris fucking Evans.

Every time I closed my eyes, she was there.

That body, tense and fighting against mine.

That breath, hot on my neck.

Those eyes, daring me to hit harder.

My cock was already hard—pushing against my boxer-briefs, throbbing like a fucking bruise.

I palmed it through the fabric, but even that pissed me off—because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

She wasn’t supposed to be under my skin like this.

But she was.

And now I was fucked.

I swung my legs off the bed, muscles sore from the weights I’d crushed last night trying to work her out of me. Didn’t work. Just made me harder. Just made me angrier.

I stalked to the mirror, jaw tight, scowling at my reflection. Rough stubble. Dark circles under my eyes. The face of a guy who should’ve grown the fuck up by now—but was still chasing ghosts and picking fights with college players.

But she wasn’t just a player.

She was a goddamn firestarter.

And I was already burning for her.

I yanked a shirt over my head; the fabric stretching across my chest, but it didn’t smother the tension crawling under my skin. Didn’t drown out the memory of her—pushing into me, snarling back like she belonged there. Like she wanted it as bad as I did.

I cursed under my breath, fists clenching at my sides.

This was wrong.

But it felt too fucking good.

And that made me hate her.

Almost as much as I wanted her.

This was bad.

Real bad.

But it was too late.

Because I already wanted more.

I yanked the tie tight around my neck; the fabric choking more than it should. My jaw worked against the pressure, teeth grinding as I buttoned the suit jacket like it was armor.

This was just a job.

Serve my time.

Do what my dad expected.

Clean up my fucking mess.

I told myself that over and over, but it didn’t settle the itch under my skin. My pulse was jacked—like I was lacing up for a game. Or gearing up to drop the gloves. And it pissed me off—because this was a meeting.

USA Hockey. Scout updates. Player development.

Routine.

Except nothing felt routine anymore.

Not since her.

I dragged a toothbrush over my teeth, glaring at my reflection again. Tired eyes. Bruised knuckles. A man trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

By the time I got to Crestwood, the sun was barely cutting the horizon, cold air biting at my face as I stepped out of the car. I inhaled deep, lungs stinging—like maybe the frost could freeze out the thoughts I didn’t fucking want.

Didn’t work.

Iris was there, behind my ribs, like a fucking ghost. The push of her against me. The fight in her eyes. That goddamn breath at my ear, making my body react before my brain could shut it down.

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, knuckles pressing hard against my thighs, like pain might ground me.

It didn’t.

I stepped into the rink—the scent of fresh ice slapped me in the face, metallic and sharp. Home. But now, it smelled like her.

Fuck.

I tried to shake it off, but the image was already there?—

Her body twisting against the boards, teeth gritted, eyes daring me to go harder. The way she looked at me after—like she wanted to fight me. Or fucking kiss me.

I blew out a breath, low and sharp, cursing under it as I pushed through the door to the conference room.

The suits were already there—serious faces, stiff handshakes, clipboards.

I slid into a chair, shoulders tight, fists curling under the table.

“Knox,” one of them said, flipping through his notes like I was just another name on a file. Another mistake they had to manage. “We appreciate you stepping in this season.”

I forced a nod, jaw locked. “Just doing what I can.”

Lie.

Everyone here knew it. I wasn’t here by choice. I was here because I fucked up. Because I lost control. Because now, the only thing between me and total irrelevance was proving I could hold my shit together.

And every time I looked at Iris Evans, I felt it slipping.

Coach Callahan stood at the head of the table, calm, collected—like he had every damn room he’d ever walked into under control.

Clipboard in hand, eyes steady, voice smooth.

Authority wrapped in ice. I should’ve been used to it by now.

The way he made it all look easy. The way he talked like he built this program from his bare fucking hands. Like he built me, too.

I barely listened.

The same drill breakdowns. Same development updates.

Same bullshit.

Until he said her name.

“Iris Evans has been a standout this season,” he announced, voice steady but with that undercurrent of pride that made my teeth grind. “Her work ethic is exceptional. She’s a real contender for Team USA.”

I went still. Jaw locked so tight it ached down my neck. Her name hit different. Because she wasn’t just a player to me anymore. She was the fight burning in my chest. The bruise I kept pressing on. The fucking problem I didn’t want to solve.

And my dad was sitting there—grinning like she was his goddamn legacy. Like she was everything I never was.

That part—that part fucking ate at me.

Because I could see it in his face. The pride. The belief. The same look he used to give me—before I ruined it.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, hands under the table, fingers pressing into my thighs.

But my blood was hot. My chest was tight.

I wasn’t here to watch some perfect prospect climb the ladder I fell off.

I was here because I fucked up. Because my name was a stain they needed to scrub off the jersey.

Especially not her. Especially not Iris Evans—the one who made me feel like I was still a player, still in the game—every time she shoved back.

The one who made me want to push harder. To break her. Or claim her.

The door creaked open, and the air shifted.

I felt it before I saw him.

Eric fucking Chambers.

He strolled in like he still owned a locker room somewhere—like he didn’t limp slightly on that left knee because of me. The guy whose face I turned into raw meat. The fight that ended his career early—and started my spiral toward rock bottom.

My stomach twisted, sharp and sudden—like a blade in the gut. The past wasn’t done with me. It was sitting down at the fucking table.

“Hey there,” Chambers said, eyes finding mine, voice oozing that fake casual tone. Like we were old teammates, not the guys who tried to destroy each other.

I forced a smile—tight, cold, dead behind the eyes. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let anyone see it.

Chambers dropped into the seat beside Coach, his presence spreading like oil over water. Smug. Settled. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew he still had power. Knew he could wreck me again if he wanted to.

“Looking forward to seeing how you all progress,” he said, easy smile.

But I heard the edge. That wasn’t for me. For what I didn’t have anymore. He had nothing to lose. I had everything.

And she was part of it, whether she knew it or not.

I stared at the table, fingers curling into fists, nails biting into my palms.

I could feel it brewing under my skin. The same thing I always felt before the gloves dropped. Before the hit. Before the spiral. The need to fight. To destroy. To win—no matter who bled for it.

And right now?

I didn’t know if I was fighting for her… Or against her.

But I knew one thing—I wasn’t fucking losing.

Not again.

“Good to see you still involved with the game, Callahan.” Chambers’s voice was smooth—polished—but the edge was there. Sharp, cutting, aimed right at my fucking throat.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. Just locked my jaw, kept my face cold and blank—the mask I’d perfected after I lost everything.

But inside? My blood was boiling. Because this wasn’t just a greeting.

This was a fucking message. A reminder. Chambers was a gatekeeper now—wearing a suit instead of gear—but still dangerous.

One phone call, one word to the right guy at USA Hockey, and he could kill whatever chance I had left. Kill what Iris had, too.

He knew what I took from him. And he wore it like armor. Career ended. Knee fucked. Legacy stripped. All because of me. And he hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had I.

I forced a nod—tight, controlled. “Appreciate it,” I said, voice flat. No cracks. No weakness.

I could play this game too.

He leaned back like he owned the room—like he was holding court—flipping through his goddamn notes like this was just another day.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on potential Team USA players this season,” he said casually, but every word was a slow drag of a knife. “Iris Evans—she’s something special. Exactly what we’re looking for.”

The words hit me like a puck to the ribs. Hard. Unexpected. Fucking personal.

Not that he could possibly know. Unless he knew that Iris was Dad's favorite. Unless he knew that would bother me.

I didn’t react—at least not where they could see it—but something dark curled up in my chest. Chambers had never respected me. But now he was singing her praises? Like he was her goddamn mentor? Like he was laying claim?

Bullshit.

“Talent like hers doesn’t come around often,” he went on, eyes flicking to mine—because he knew.

He fucking knew.

“She’s got grit,” he added, lips curling slightly. “Drives hard for every puck.”

The words twisted, too close to how I’d been thinking about her. Too close to everything I wanted.

His eyes met mine again. Longer this time. Testing me. Daring me.

“Just remember,” he said slowly, leaning forward like he was offering wisdom, “talent isn’t enough to make it at that level.”

I knew exactly what he meant. It wasn’t about Iris. It was about me. About the blood on my hands. The ref hit. The suspension. The exile.

Talent wasn’t enough.

I was proof of that.