Page 175 of Shots & Echoes

“Dad,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper.

He paused mid-motion, turning to face me fully. “Yeah?”

I swallowed hard. The words had been stuck in my throat for too long—tangled with fear and shame. But this was my chance to lay it all out there. So I did.

“It’s about Knox.”

His expression shifted slightly—a mixture of concern and caution. But he didn’t interrupt; he just nodded for me to continue.

“He’s not perfect,” I said, feeling the weight of every word as it tumbled out. “But he’s good. Better than anyone sees.”

I could see my dad’s brow furrow slightly as I continued to speak, needing him to understand this part of me that had felt so isolated for too long.

“He fought because no one ever fought for him,” I admitted quietly. “He’s been carrying this burden alone for so long, and when I see him… it’s like he finally found someone worth fighting for.”

Dad leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he listened intently. There was something about laying it all bare—the highs and lows of Knox—that made it feel real and terrifying at the same time.

“Knox isn’t just some reckless guy on a power trip,” I pressed on. “He fights because he cares about those who can’t stand up for themselves.”

As I spoke, each word seemed to peel back layers of pain and confusion that had settled over me since everything changed between us. It felt freeing—and frightening—to let these feelings flow into the space between us like a thread connecting my heart to his understanding gaze.

"I love him, Dad," I murmured. "I know it isn’t… right, but it feels right for me."

As I sat there at the kitchen table, pouring my heart out, I saw the understanding in his eyes. He listened—really listened—his focus unwavering.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but honest. “And how does he feel about you?”

I sighed, my chest tightening at the thought of Knox’s face when he’d turned away from me. “I know he cares, but…”

“But?” Dad pressed gently.

“He broke things off,” I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “Probably heard about the Team USA meeting.” My heart squeezed painfully at the memory of that day—the fear that had gripped me as they spoke of my future like it was some game I was bound to lose. “I know he thinks he was doing it for me, but…”

The weight of my emotions pressed down hard, and I could feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Dad fell silent for a moment before finally saying, “You know why I coached you so hard? Because I knew you could take it.” He paused, searching my face. “But I forgot… sometimes even the strong ones need someone in their corner.”

I nodded slowly—because that was exactly how I felt about Knox. He was tough and stubborn and always seemed to have everything figured out. But deep down, I sensed the cracks—the way he fought his battles alone.

“Sounds like you want to be that for him,” he continued.

I took a breath and nodded again. Yes, that was it. I didn’t just love Knox; I wanted to fight for him. But first?—

I had to play.

The upcoming game loomed over me like a storm cloud as adrenaline surged through my veins. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth as thoughts whirled in my head: would this be enough? Would winning today matter if Knox wasn't by my side?

With every ounce of determination pooling inside me, I stood up from the table and grabbed my gear from where it hung near the door. The weight felt familiar—the pads against my shoulders grounding me in purpose.

I nodded at my dad; the words hanging in the air between us. "I’ll see you at the rink," I said, trying to sound confident, but inside, a storm brewed.

“Honey.” His voice stopped me as I turned to leave. I looked back, meeting his gaze. “I trust your judgment. I trust your heart. Don’t doubt yourself in any capacity, okay? The right ones will stay, no matter how hard things get.”

I sucked in a breath and headed to my car, those words echoing in my mind as I drove to the rink.

The arena buzzed with energy when I arrived—red, white, and blue everywhere. Flags hung proudly from the rafters, banners draped across the walls. This was it—the moment I’d been dreaming about since I first laced up my skates.

My chest swelled with pride as I pulled that Team USA jersey over my head. It felt heavy but empowering—like it wrapped around me in a way that screamed belonging. This was what I bled for; this was everything.

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