Page 46 of Pucking Knox
Maybe I'm the only one who stopped pretending.
My phone buzzes with a text from Knox.
Knox: Miss you, Princess. Two more days until the combine. Then I'm all yours.
But am I his? Or just another carefully managed part of his path to the NHL?
I fall asleep with his hoodie pressed to my face, trying to remember how real it felt at the beach house. Trying to believe that somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, he fell as hard as I did.
Trying to ignore the voice that whispers: Some things are too good to be true.
Chapter 18
I smell whiskey in the locker room, and I’m not even sure if it’s because of my dad, but he’s the first person that pops in my mind.
For a moment, I'm sixteen again – watching my father stumble into my championship game, fists already clenched. But this is different. This is my final regular season game, scouts from every NHL team watching, and Kennedy waiting in the stands wearing my jersey.
This is everything I've worked for.
"You got this, Knox." Coach Evans claps my shoulder as we prep for warm-ups. "Wilson's here with the Bruins' head scout. They're watching you specifically."
No pressure.
The arena buzzes with energy as we take the ice. I spot Kennedy immediately in the family section, my number 12 falling past herhips, her hair caught up in a messy bun. She's talking animatedly with Maddie, probably still learning hockey terms even after all these months.
"My sister’s here." Ace appears beside me during stretches. "Wearing your number."
"Yeah." Something possessive unfurls in my chest at the sight. "She's been to every game lately."
"She hates coming to games, you know." He says it simply, like it's not the most terrifying thing I've ever heard. "Don't screw it up."
The whiskey smell hits again as we head back to the locker room. This time I spot the source – my father. It is him. And he’s weaving through the crowd near the tunnel.
No. Not tonight.
"Knox!" He's somehow closer, alcohol slurring his words. "Big game tonight, right? NHL scouts and everything?"
Security moves toward him but he's already reaching for me. I step between him and the team, muscle memory from years of protecting my mother.
"Dad." I keep my voice low, steady. "You can't be here."
"Can't watch my son play?" He sways slightly. "Big shot hockey player now, too good for his old man?"
"Sir." Security finally reaches us. "This area is restricted—"
"That's my son!" Dad's voice rises, drawing attention. "My boy's going to the NHL! Gonna take care of his daddy, right Knox? Make up for all those years..."
"Everything okay?" Kennedy materializes beside me, her hand sliding into mine. "Mr. Thompson, why don't we get some coffee? The cafe here makes great—"
"Don't need coffee." Dad's eyes narrow on our joined hands. "Need my son to remember where he came from. Who made him tough enough for—"
"Made me tough?" The words taste like copper. "You mean all those nights I had to clean up your messes? Hide mom's bruises? Work three jobs because you drank away our rent?"
Kennedy's hand tightens in mine but I barely feel it. All I see is him – swaying and pathetic and everything I'm terrified of becoming.
"Security." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "Get him out of here."
"Knox—" Kennedy starts, but I'm already pulling away.
