Page 174 of Shots & Echoes

The space around me felt hollow, stripped of the heat she had left behind. My hands curled into fists against my knees, my knuckles still raw from the last punch I’d thrown. But it didn’t matter. No amount of bruised skin or aching bones could compare to the wreckage inside me.

I had loved her. Fuck, I still loved her. And yet, I had looked her in the eye and ripped her apart like it meant nothing. Like she was nothing.

“You were just convenient.”

The memory of her expression twisted in my gut like a blade. The way her lips had parted in shock, the way her eyes had shone with betrayal before she slammed the door behind her.

I had made her walk away. And now I had to live with it.

I exhaled shakily, dragging my hands down my face, trying to block out the echo of her voice, the way she had fought for me, even when I was too much of a coward to fight for myself.

She would move on. She had to.

Because if she didn’t, she’d drown in my fucking wreckage.

Chapter 33

Iris

Ilay in bed, staring at the ceiling, but sleep wouldn’t come. The breakup sat like lead in my chest, heavy and suffocating. I tossed and turned, my mind racing through every moment we had shared, every word spoken. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d lost something precious—something that would never come back.

Finally, I rolled out of bed and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The urge to see Knox was overwhelming, but it was more than that; I needed to confront what happened. With shaking fingers, I opened the app and pulled up the video of the game.

The game.

The one that ended him.

I hit play and watched as he glided across the ice in that Team USA jersey—youthful and cocky, a force to be reckoned with. Every move he made radiated confidence; he was so fucking alive. His eyes sparkled with determination as he navigated through defenders like they were mere obstacles.

Then came the moment everything shifted—the second that turned him into someone else entirely.

His teammate got targeted, shoved hard into the boards like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. My stomach twisted as I saw the refs standing by, doing nothing. The arena filled with noise—yelling fans, angry coaches—but all I could focus on was Knox. He was across the ice, eyes narrowing as he assessed what just happened.

He said something to the ref, and the ref chirped back.

And then he snapped.

Knox dropped his gloves like they were weights pulling him down, fists flying toward the offender with a fury I hadn’t seen before. It was instinctive and primal—defending someone who couldn’t defend himself. My breath caught in my throat as I realized what he was risking: his career, his future, everything he had worked for.

He fought like a man possessed, and I couldn’t look away. But then it hit me—this wasn’t just about that moment on the ice; this was about something deeper. He wasn’t reckless; he was desperate. He swung those fists not because he wanted to hurt someone but because no one else cared enough to step in.

The ejection came swift and brutal. Knox stood there for a heartbeat longer after they pulled him away, anger and hurt etched across his face before being escorted off the ice. It was too late; they had already decided his fate—suspended for an indefinite period of time and blacklisted from any hope of returning to glory.

And no one on his team stood up for him. Not during the game, not after.

And sure, hitting a ref was uncalled for.

But the ref had said something.

Knox didn't just lose it to lose it.

I pressed my fingers against my lips, tears stinging my eyes as reality washed over me. Knox didn’t destroy his career because he craved chaos; he did it because he was alone. Noone else stepped up to fight for those who couldn’t defend themselves—except him.

I satat the kitchen table, coffee cold in my hands, staring out the window as the morning light filtered through. The sun glinted off the dew-kissed grass, but I felt none of its warmth. Instead, an ache settled deep in my chest, heavier than the weight of my thoughts.

Dad moved around the kitchen, humming to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee. I could sense his eyes flicking over to me every now and then, watching with that familiar concern etched on his face. He noticed. He always did. But he let me sit in my silence, letting me come to him when I was ready.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of sitting still, I took a shaky breath and spoke up.

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