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My fists curled under the table, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to lunge across the room. Wanted to finish what we started years ago—break his nose again. Break everything.

But I didn’t.

Because this wasn’t the ice. This was politics. And I was already losing.

Worse?

Iris was in the fucking middle of it. And she didn’t even know.

Chambers wanted me to acknowledge my fall from grace. Wanted me to submit. But I wasn’t giving him that. Not here. Not ever.

But I knew one thing. He was watching her. And he was watching me.

This was just the start. And I’d be damned if I let him take her jersey—or take her—without a fucking fight.

"Yeah," I said slowly. "But grit isn't something you see nowadays, regardless of sex. It's something to look for."

I sat there, heart hammering like a fucking war drum, every muscle coiled so tight it felt like my body might snap. Chambers’ voice slid through the room, smooth, practiced—but I heard what was underneath. Poison wrapped in silk. A loaded gun with the safety off.

And Iris?

She was the target. He was using her to get to me.

To remind me that no matter how far I ran, my past would always be waiting to gut me.

He didn’t have to spell it out. It was in the way he leaned back, all casual confidence, that smug gleam tucked behind his eyes like he already knew how this ended.

Like he was daring me to fight back—because he knew I couldn’t without losing everything.

This guy could fucking bury her.

Not because she wasn’t good enough—I knew she was. The best player on that goddamn ice.

But my name? My name was poison.

And Chambers? He was more than happy to pour that poison into her veins if it meant bleeding me out.

“You’re right,” he said, voice slick as oil but sharp enough to gut me. “But sometimes that grit can only take you so far.”

I felt the hit like a punch to the ribs. Not about her. About me.

Grit gets you to the top—until you fuck up. Until you snap and cross the line. Until you become the guy they whisper about instead of the guy they celebrate.

And anyone standing too close?

They went down with you.

Iris.

Too fucking close.

I could feel the eyes in the room—my father’s steady, Chambers’ sharp. But all I felt was that sinking dread—the one that settled in my gut the day they took my jersey away. Except now, it wasn’t just my career on the line.

It was hers.

Chambers was still talking, spitting out his little sermon about what made a real player—heart, pressure, stability. All those buzzwords that sounded good in press conferences but meant jack shit when you were bleeding on the ice.

“Some players crumble under pressure. They just… lose it.” He let it hang—like he was carving it into my chest. His eyes found mine—quick, deliberate—before shifting back to my dad.

He was talking about me. About the hit. About the fight that ended his career. About the ref hit.

But all I saw was her. Taking every goddamn slapshot. Slamming into the boards. Getting back up every time like she was made of steel and spite.

She wasn’t going to crumble.

Not on my fucking watch.

But none of that mattered if Chambers decided to pull her under just to get to me.

I swallowed the fury crawling up my throat. Kept my mouth shut. Fists balled under the table so tight my nails bit into my palms.

I had to be smart. Couldn’t punch my way through this. Couldn’t lose it like last time. But the thought of Iris—working her ass off, sweating, fighting—only to have her shot ripped away because of me? Because of my fucking name?

It made me sick. Made me want to break something. Made me want to put Chambers back on the ice and finish what I started.

But I didn’t.

Because this was war. And this time, I had more to lose.

Iris didn’t know it yet. But she needed protecting. And I was the only one who could keep her safe. Even if I was the danger wrapped around her throat. Even if I was the reason her dreams might burn. I’d protect her. Even if it killed me. Even if she fucking hated me for it.

The meeting wrapped, but the tension didn’t break. It sat there, heavy, coiled around my ribs like barbed wire. Chambers was gone, but he’d left his mark—his smirk still burned into my vision like a goddamn scar.

And I felt it—my father’s eyes on me, cutting straight through my skin. Seeing everything. The clench of my jaw. The fists under the table. The fucking storm he knew was brewing in my chest.

I didn’t want this conversation. But it was coming. Like a goddamn freight train.

“Knox.”

Coach Callahan’s voice was low, steady—but there was steel under it. The kind that didn’t bend. The kind that said, Don’t fuck this up.

Everyone else was filing out, polite nods and handshakes, but we stayed. Just the two of us, standing in the ruins of whatever respect I had left. He stepped closer, shoulders squared—not quite a father, not quite a coach. Somewhere in between. Somewhere that always felt like judgment.

“Whatever that was? Bury it.” The words hit like a check to the chest. “You’re here to clean up your name, not make it worse.”

My jaw locked so tight I thought my teeth might crack. My name. It always came back to my fucking name. My mistakes. My mess.

Never Chambers’ bullshit. Never the way that smug asshole baited me on the ice until we were both bleeding. Never the broken ribs I played through.

Just the headline: Callahan Snaps. Career Over.

He never saw what Chambers did to me. He only saw what I became after. The disgrace. The fucking waste.

“Yeah? And what if I’m the reason she doesn’t make it? What if my name drags her down with me?”

I saw the shift in his face—the crack in his coach mask. That flicker of something personal. Real concern. Real fear.

Because he knew. He’d thought it too. Maybe not out loud—but he fucking knew.

The space between us tightened.

This wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about her. And he cared about her future almost as much as I did. Maybe more.

“Iris is a talented player,” he said carefully—too carefully. Like every word was a step through a minefield. “She can handle herself.”

Irritation spiked hot in my chest. Wrong answer. Too fucking easy.

“But she shouldn’t have to.” The words ripped out, rough, raw, before I could choke them back. “I don’t want to be another obstacle for her. I don’t want her fighting against my past just to get to her future.”

That was the truth. The part I hadn’t even admitted to myself until right now.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, eyes sharp—seeing past the anger, past the bravado, straight into the wreckage underneath.

“You’re not your past,” he said finally.

But his voice wavered—just a little. Enough that I heard the doubt.

I let out a sharp laugh, bitter and low. “No? Then why does everyone still see me as that guy?”

I paced—couldn’t fucking help it. Body too wired, adrenaline still crawling under my skin from sitting across from Chambers.

Hand raked through my hair, breath sharp through my teeth.

“I’m just supposed to stand here—play babysitter—while someone else builds their dream on this ice? While mine went up in flames?”

My voice cracked on that last part. I hated that. Hated that he heard it.

But it was too late. The truth was already bleeding out.

My father’s expression softened—but not with pity. With understanding. That was worse. Because it meant he knew exactly how far I’d fallen.

He exhaled slow. “Focus on helping her,” he said. Quiet, but firm. Like he was offering me a rope instead of a lecture. But it still felt like a leash. “That’s what you’re here for.”

That hit harder than anything Chambers said. Because it was final. It was the limit. The line I wasn’t allowed to cross.

I looked away—couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. Because if I did, he’d see everything. The anger. The guilt. The fucking need. He’d see her. The player I was supposed to build up. The girl I was supposed to stay away from. The one I already fucking wanted.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, fists still clenched. I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince—him or myself—but the words came out, anyway.

“I got it.”

Lie.

We both knew it.

But he let me walk away.

Because that’s what Callahans do. We buried it.

Until it fucking killed us.

I left the rink with my jaw tight and my hands shaking—like I’d just come off a fight I hadn’t finished. The summer air hit me hard, hot and damp, but it didn’t cool the fire burning under my skin. Nothing could.

Not now.

I wanted to hit something. Felt that old itch—the one that made my knuckles crack and my blood run hot. Drop gloves. Throw punches until my fists split open, until I couldn’t hear anything but the slap of bone against flesh.

Until I was empty.

But it wouldn’t be enough.

Because what I really wanted was her.

Iris.

The thought sliced through me, sharp and wrong, but I didn’t shake it off.

Didn’t even try. I wanted her against the glass—body tense, breath ragged—waiting for me to hit her again.

To see if she’d hold the line. Or fold. Wanted to slam her back into that fucking wall, hear that gasp again—the one that wrecked me more than it should’ve.

The one that made me hard in the middle of drills.

Her eyes afterward—sharp, furious, alive—like she was daring me to do it again. Like she liked it.

And fuck, that made something twist low in my gut—dark and possessive. Because if she wanted to play with fire, I’d burn her whole fucking world down.

I’d burn with her.

She was mine.

She just didn’t know it yet.

And maybe that scared me more than anything. Because I didn’t know how to want something without breaking it. Without wrecking it with my own goddamn hands.

Doubt slithered in—cold, suffocating—dragging me back to reality.

Chambers. The fucking jersey. Her future.

Was I going to be the reason she never got it?

Was my name the weight around her ankles—the thing that drowned her?

Or…

Was I the reason she’d earn it?

Because every time we clashed, every time she pushed back harder, I saw it—that fire.

And it was getting hotter.

Sharper.

Because of me.

I shook my head like that would rattle the thoughts loose—but they were welded to my fucking bones now.

Behind the frosted glass, I caught a glimpse—her silhouette moving, effortless and fierce. Like she owned the ice. Like she was built for it. Like she was built for me .

That jersey? She deserved it more than anyone.

And if someone tried to take it from her?

I’d destroy them.

Even if that someone was me.

Even if it ruined us both.

She was mine.

And I wasn’t fucking letting her go.