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The room fucking stilled.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I watched my father’s expression shift—shock flickering across his face, then something colder, something calculating. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, least of all by someone half his age, least of all by her.

He had come here expecting guilt. Expecting regret.

But Iris? She didn’t give him either.

I felt the tension coil tighter, the space between us shrinking as she stepped closer—not in defiance, not in recklessness, but in certainty. She was choosing this. Choosing me.

And for the first time, the fear that had been gnawing at my insides—the doubt—it didn’t win.

Because no matter what storm we were walking into, no matter how badly this could all end, there was one thing I knew for sure:

We weren’t backing down.

My breath hitched.

“Knox didn’t ruin me. He pushed me to be better.”

The words hit like a slap to the face, cutting through the tension in the room like a scalpel.

I felt them settle deep in my chest, an ache I didn’t know how to name.

Pride. Possessiveness. Something darker.

I had pushed her—I had torn her down and built her back up, believing in her when no one else had. She was a fighter because of me.

“I made that team because of him.”

She wasn’t just defending me—she was staking her claim. Declaring it out loud, in front of him—the only person whose approval had ever meant anything to me, even when I pretended it didn’t.

And then she said the words that stole the fucking breath from my lungs.

“I love your son.”

The world stopped.

My body went still, tension locking my spine as those three words wrapped around my ribs and squeezed. This wasn’t a whispered confession in the dark, hidden beneath sheets and secrets. This was public. Real. This was a declaration made in the face of power, judgment, and consequence.

My father’s expression twisted—disbelief first, then something colder. That look of control. The one he always wielded like a weapon.

“You’re young.” His voice was sharp, measured, as if trying to contain this. To contain us. “This will ruin you. Do you understand what people will say?”

But Iris didn’t fold. Didn’t shrink. She just stood there, chin high, gaze unwavering.

“I understand,” she said, and then—again, stronger this time, deadlier, like a blade driving straight into my father’s chest—“I still love him.”

My breath came hard, ragged. My fists clenched at my sides as something deep and primal rose inside me—something fierce, something that wanted to fucking destroy anyone who doubted her, who doubted us.

I wanted to step forward. Wanted to claim her the way she had just claimed me. But the fear gnawed at my insides like acid—because this was it.

We had crossed the line.

And there was no coming back.

Iris’s phone rang, sharp and jarring, slicing through the tension like a blade.

My jaw locked as she stiffened beside me, fingers tightening around the device. One second of hesitation. Then she answered, voice level—controlled—but there was something beneath it, something just out of reach.

“Yeah?”

I leaned in, every nerve in my body braced for whatever was coming next. But all I could do was watch—watch as her expression flickered, as something unreadable passed over her features. My father was still standing there, his presence suffocating, his silence heavier than his words.

But fuck him.

I only cared about her .

The call ended. The phone dropped to the table. A decision made in a single breath.

“I have to go.” Her voice was clipped, rushed. No room for argument. Her hands moved fast, gathering her things, slipping into action before I could process what the hell was happening.

“Who?” I demanded, even though I already fucking knew.

“Team USA reps. Last-minute meeting.”

A slow, sick dread coiled in my gut. Because I’d felt this before—that sensation of something being ripped away before I had the chance to hold on.

I scoffed. “Convenient.”

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing for half a second, but she didn’t bite. Didn’t argue. She disappeared into the bedroom, and I heard the rustling of fabric, the soft drag of a zipper—then she was back.

Wearing that dress.

The one Langley had ruined with his fucking hands earlier. The one I wanted to rip off her again and again and again just to erase the memory of anyone else ever touching her in it.

She stepped toward me, close enough that I could feel her warmth, and then—a kiss.

Soft. Quick. But devastating.

A promise. A warning. A goddamn line in the sand.

I let her pull away, but only just. Because I knew.

This wasn’t just her leaving for a meeting.

This was the calm before the storm, the final breath before the freefall.

And as I stared into those green eyes—those eyes that had been burning through my defenses since day one—I had the sick feeling that we were already past the point of no return.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and unrelenting. Worse than anger. Worse than anything he could’ve yelled.

“You can’t help it, can you?” His voice was low, sharp. A quiet, lethal thing. A blade meant to slice straight through me. “You ruin everything you touch.”

The words landed harder than any punch ever had. A direct hit. And I just stood there, absorbing it, letting it sink into my ribs like shrapnel. Because part of me wondered if he was right.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I was built for destruction.

I clenched my fists at my sides, knuckles aching from the night’s violence. From Chris. From everything.

My father watched me, waiting for a response, waiting for me to fight back. But what the hell was I supposed to say? That I didn’t mean for any of this to happen? That it wasn’t my fault?

It was my fault.

And he knew it.

“Do you even care what happens next?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but somehow worse. Like he was already mourning what I could’ve been.

I didn’t answer.

“You’ve put her in danger.”

The weight of those words hit different. Like a fist straight to the chest. My pulse hammered against my ribs, an erratic, desperate beat. Because this wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about her.

I forced out a breath, jaw tightening. “I’m not putting her in danger.” But even as I said it, it didn’t feel like the truth. Because deep down, I knew—Iris wasn’t safe in my orbit. She was burning too close to something that could ruin her.

My father gave a short, humorless laugh. “Really?” Disbelief flickered in his expression, twisting into something darker. “You think this is just about you? That she’ll walk away from this unscathed?”

I couldn’t breathe past the knot in my chest. Couldn’t move past the reality barreling toward me like a freight train.

“She’s tough,” I said, but the words barely made it out. Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure if toughness was enough.

And then he looked at me—really looked at me. Like he was seeing straight through the layers of anger, of arrogance, of bravado that had held me together for so long.

“But are you?”

The question hit its mark, clean and brutal. I swallowed hard, something inside me cracking under the weight of it.

Because I didn’t know.

I didn’t fucking know.

And as I stood there, staring at the man who had shaped me, I felt the dam start to break.

Callahan’s expression didn’t soften—it barely shifted—but somehow, it still felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, voice steady, measured. Almost careful. Like he was afraid of what would happen if he let the full weight of his disappointment settle between us. “But you need to see what you’re doing. She has a future. And you’re going to destroy it.”

The words cut deep, sharper than any blade, and I felt them in my chest. They weren’t meant to be cruel—but fuck, they still left a wound.

I opened my mouth to argue, to deny it, but nothing came out. Because some part of me—the part I never wanted to face—knew he might be right. What if I was the thing that finally broke her? What if, after all the fights she’d won, I was the one battle she couldn’t walk away from unscathed?

Callahan turned, his gaze flickering toward the Team USA jersey still slung in that corner. The same jersey that had meant everything to me once. Now, it meant everything to her. And it was my fucking fault that she might lose it all.

“She’s going to wear that jersey one day,” he murmured, but there was an edge beneath his words, something cold and undeniable. “But no one’s ever going to forget what it cost her to get it.”

The door slammed shut behind him; the sound echoing like a gunshot in an empty rink.

I stood there, breath coming in short, uneven bursts, feeling everything and nothing all at once. Knuckles still raw, chest still tight, stomach twisting with something I couldn’t control.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like the guy who threw the hits. I felt like the one taking them.

Every moment with Iris had felt like oxygen, like fucking survival. Every glance, every touch, every whispered confession in the dark—it had all pulled me back from the edge. But now? Now it felt tainted. Drenched in doubt.

What if my father was right? What if this—us—was just a countdown to something inevitable? What if, no matter how hard I fought to be the one thing she could hold onto, I was the thing that would drag her under?

My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms, trying to ground myself against the sickening truth pressing down on me.

She deserved better.

Better than me.

And yet—I couldn’t let her go.

Wouldn’t.

I sank onto the bed, elbows digging into my knees, head in my hands.

The weight of everything pressed down on me like a fucking anvil, suffocating, relentless.

The sheets still smelled like her. That familiar mix of sweat, skin, and something uniquely her wrapped around me, clinging to my senses like a ghost I couldn’t shake.

She was in my bed, in my head, under my goddamn skin.

And now? Now it felt different. Heavier.

I love your son.

The words echoed in my skull, a confession I hadn’t been ready for—one I didn’t know what to do with.

It was a lifeline, pulling me toward something real, something solid.

But at the same time, it was a shackle. A chain wrapping tight around my throat, reminding me of what I was, what I could never be.

Because as much as I wanted to be her anchor, my father’s voice slithered in, cold and unrelenting:

“You’re wasting your life.”

“You’re not built for this.”

“You’re going to ruin her.”

The words were vultures, circling, waiting for me to break.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown them out, but all I saw was her. The way she looked at me in the dark, when we weren’t just coach and player, when the world outside didn’t exist. The way she whispered my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.

But then I saw what would come next. The fallout. The consequences. The whispers, the headlines, the goddamn destruction waiting just beyond this moment.

Would they see her as the fighter she was? Or just another girl who got too close to the coach?

I gritted my teeth, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars exploded behind my lids. I didn’t know what scared me more—that she really did love me, or that I wasn’t capable of loving her the way she deserved.

Because the truth was ugly. Dark.

I was not a good man.

And Iris Evans? She was meant for greatness.

I just wasn’t sure if I was the one helping her get there… or the thing that would finally bring her down.