Page 11 of Shots & Echoes

So fucking young. A baby.

And this season?

It wasn’t just about riding out my sentence under my dad’s thumb anymore.

It was about her.

About seeing how far I could push her—before she shattered.

Or maybe before I fucking did.

Either way, this was just the beginning.

And I wasn’t letting her off the ice anytime soon.

The sound of blades scraping against ice behind me set my teeth on edge. I knew who it was before I turned. The weight of him—of his fucking expectations—always felt heavier than anyone else’s.

“Knox.”

Low. Controlled.

But I heard the warning underneath.

I didn’t bother pretending I wasn’t expecting it.

Just turned, jaw tight, arms crossed over my chest.

Coach Callahan.

Dad.

Same fucking thing.

“Watch it,” he said, eyes cold, voice clipped.

I snorted. “What? She can take it.”

“She’s not used to that kind of pressure.”

That coach voice—like I was just another player, not his son.

Like he hadn’t been lecturing me my entire life.

“I know you think you’re helping, but you’re pushing her too hard.”

I laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “If she breaks because of me, she shouldn’t be here.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not your call.”

I stepped forward, shoulders squaring instinctively. We’d been doing this dance since I was fifteen. Except now, we were both older—and I had a hell of a lot more scars.

“If you want me here, I’m doing it my way,” I said. “I’m not here to babysit your future star.”

He sighed—the kind that said he was tired of me, tired of this—tired of cleaning up my messes. I'd heard it all before.

“You’re not here to prove something,” he said.

I scoffed. “Prove what? That I’m not a washed-up psycho who took himself out of the game?”

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