Page 47 of Pucking Knox
"Kennedy," I snap. "I can't."
I flee to the loading dock, winter air shocking my lungs. Behind me, I hear the commotion of security removing my father, his shouts about ungrateful sons echoing off concrete.
"Knox." Kennedy's voice is soft, careful. She followed me. Of course she did. "Talk to me."
I clench my jaw. "You should go inside."
"No."
"Kennedy."
"No." She steps in front of me, green eyes fierce. "You don't get to push me away."
"You don't understand."
"Then help me understand." Her hands frame my face, forcing me to look at her. "Help me understand why you're looking at me like you're about to run."
Because I am. Because watching my father tonight – seeing that familiar rage in his eyes, feeling it echo in my blood – reminds me exactly why I can't have this. Can't have her.
"The game starts in twenty minutes." I step back, away from her touch. "You should find your seat."
"Knox, please—"
"I'll see you after."
I head back inside without looking at her, ignoring the hurt in her voice. It's better this way. Better to push her away now than wait for her to realize what I really am.
My father's son.
The game passes in a blur of controlled violence. I play harder than ever, channeling everything into clean checks and perfect passes. No fights tonight even though it sounds fucking great. No penalties. I’ll have to figure something out after this game because I won’t be able to keep my composure for much longer. If my father thinks he can waltz in and destroy everything I’ve ever worked hard for, he’s dead wrong.
We win 4-1. I have two assists.
"Beautiful game." Wilson catches me after, grinning. "That's what we want to see – control, precision, leadership. Keep this up through playoffs and the combine? You're looking at first round for sure."
I should feel triumphant. Instead, all I feel is hollow.
Kennedy waits by my truck after, still wearing my jersey. There’s a pit in my stomach when I see her. I wish she would take a fucking hint.Space. I need space. She looks small in the parking lot lights, but her spine is steel.
"Ready to talk about it?" she asks.
"Nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." She steps closer. "You're pushing me away because your father showed up. Because you're scared of becoming him."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Her voice cracks. "You think I don't see how you hold back? How you check yourself whenever you feel too much? How you're always waiting for me to realize you're not perfect?"
"Kennedy—"
"No, let me finish." She pokes my chest. "You're so focused on being worthy of me that you forgot something important: I fell for the real you. The guy who fights for his team. Who gets angry sometimes. Who isn't perfect but tries anyway."
"That's not—"
"But lately? You're just playing a part. Perfect boyfriend for the cameras. Reformed bad boy for the scouts. You're so busy trying to be what everyone wants that you forgot how to just be you."
The words hit like body checks, leaving me winded.
