Page 25 of Shots & Echoes

USA Hockey. Scout updates. Player development.

Routine.

Except nothing felt routine anymore.

Not since her.

I dragged a toothbrush over my teeth, glaring at my reflection again. Tired eyes. Bruised knuckles. A man trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

By the time I got to Crestwood, the sun was barely cutting the horizon, cold air biting at my face as I stepped out of the car. I inhaled deep, lungs stinging—like maybe the frost could freeze out the thoughts I didn’t fucking want.

Didn’t work.

Iris was there, behind my ribs, like a fucking ghost. The push of her against me. The fight in her eyes. That goddamn breath at my ear, making my body react before my brain could shut it down.

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, knuckles pressing hard against my thighs, like pain might ground me.

It didn’t.

I stepped into the rink—the scent of fresh ice slapped me in the face, metallic and sharp. Home. But now, it smelled like her.

Fuck.

I tried to shake it off, but the image was already there?—

Her body twisting against the boards, teeth gritted, eyes daring me to go harder. The way she looked at me after—like she wanted to fight me. Or fucking kiss me.

I blew out a breath, low and sharp, cursing under it as I pushed through the door to the conference room.

The suits were already there—serious faces, stiff handshakes, clipboards.

I slid into a chair, shoulders tight, fists curling under the table.

“Knox,” one of them said, flipping through his notes like I was just another name on a file. Another mistake they had to manage. “We appreciate you stepping in this season.”

I forced a nod, jaw locked. “Just doing what I can.”

Lie.

Everyone here knew it. I wasn’t here by choice. I was here because I fucked up. Because I lost control. Because now, the only thing between me and total irrelevance was proving I could hold my shit together.

And every time I looked at Iris Evans, I felt it slipping.

Coach Callahan stood at the head of the table, calm, collected—like he had every damn room he’d ever walked into under control. Clipboard in hand, eyes steady, voice smooth. Authority wrapped in ice. I should’ve been used to it by now. The way he made it all look easy. The way he talked like he built this program from his bare fucking hands. Like he built me, too.

I barely listened.

The same drill breakdowns. Same development updates.

Same bullshit.

Until he said her name.

“Iris Evans has been a standout this season,” he announced, voice steady but with that undercurrent of pride that made my teeth grind. “Her work ethic is exceptional. She’s a real contender for Team USA.”

I went still. Jaw locked so tight it ached down my neck. Her name hit different. Because she wasn’t just a player to me anymore. She was the fight burning in my chest. The bruise I kept pressing on. The fucking problem I didn’t want to solve.

And my dad was sitting there—grinning like she was his goddamn legacy. Like she was everything I never was.

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