Page 122 of Shots & Echoes

The way he said my name? A command. A reminder.

“You’re late.”

The words cut through the quiet, sharp and deliberate. A test.

I leaned back, forcing an easy expression, even though I felt the weight of his scrutiny pressing down. “Traffic.” The lie rolled off my tongue before I even thought about it.

He didn’t call me on it. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he folded the paper, set it aside, and finally met my eyes.

And just like that, the real fight started.

“We need to talk about Evans.”

A slow, heavy pulse of tension locked up my muscles at the mention of her name. Not about the team. Not about the season. About her.

My jaw tightened, but I kept my tone steady. “Yeah?”

He tapped a finger against his cup, emphasizing each word like they were part of some unspoken rule I was already breaking.

“She’s got potential.”

I already knew that.

“But you need to make sure she stays focused.”

And I already knew exactly what he meant.

Because he saw it. Maybe he didn’t have the full story yet, but he felt it—the way I was unraveling over her. And now?

Now he was giving me a warning.

Too fucking late.

I stared at my father—the man who had built me, broken me, and rebuilt me again—as he folded the newspaper and set it aside with deliberate precision. His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting, like he could see straight through my bullshit before I even had a chance to spit it out.

“Knox,” he started, voice firm, carrying the weight of expectation. A challenge. A warning. “I see a lot in her. She’s got raw talent that could take her places if she harnesses it right.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing over my chest. Like I didn’t already know that. Like I hadn’t been watching her, pushing her, fucking wanting her with every ounce of my being.

“Her work ethic is impressive,” he went on, unwavering. “But you need to keep her locked in. Don’t let her get distracted by everything around her—especially that Langley kid.”

The words landed with a dull thud in my chest. I didn’t flinch, didn’t react, but the tension coiled tighter in my gut, winding like a spring ready to snap.

Before I could open my mouth, he leaned in, voice dropping to something lower, something sharper. “What’s the plan, Knox? What's next?"

I shrugged, grabbed my coffee, took a slow sip like I wasn’t coming apart at the seams. Like I had control. “This is next,” I muttered. “Helping out. Doing what I can.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His eyes narrowed, his disappointment settling into the space between us like a shadow. “This isn’t it. You’re not a coach. You’re not playing anymore. You’re just… floating.”

I set the cup down hard, the ceramic clanking against the table. A warning shot.

“You don’t even have a place,” he continued, unrelenting. “You’re living out of that rented house. No roots. No family.”

Each word hit its mark, slicing through the cracks I tried to ignore. He wasn’t just talking about hockey. He was talking about me—about the empty fucking void I hadn’t figured out how to fill.

“What are you doing?”

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