Page 59 of Pucking Knox
I understand Grey's warning the moment I walk in. Kennedy sits at our usual table, laughing at something Harvey says. They're not touching, not even really flirting, but something about the scene makes my blood boil.
"Breathe," Ace appears beside me out of nowhere. "They're just talking, and you’re not supposed to fucking be here."
"Good." The word scrapes my throat. "She deserves... she deserves someone good."
And Harvey is good. Safe. Everything I can never be.
"You need to leave. I promised her you wouldn’t be here."
I turn around and leave.
Maybe letting her go was the most loving thing I've ever done.
The combine looms tomorrow. Scouts from every NHL team watching my every move. Testing my strength, my speed, my control.
I leave Pietro's without eating and drive straight to the gym. Work out until my muscles scream and sweat drips and I can't remember the sound of Kennedy's laugh.
The next morning, I'm the first one at the combine.
"Focused," Coach comments, watching me warm up. "Good."
The tests blur together. Bench press: 15 reps at 185 pounds. Vertical jump: 32 inches. Sprint drills, agility courses, endless measurements of what I'm worth.
Scouts cluster with clipboards, whispering about my "improved discipline" and "remarkable control."
They have no idea.
No idea that every rep, every jump, every sprint is fueled by green eyes. No idea that I'm not trying to prove I'm worth drafting – I'm trying to prove I'm worth loving.
"Thompson." Coach Evans catches me between tests. "Don’t get distracted."
I turn and my heart stops.
Kennedy stands in the arena seats, looking perfect in a campaign-appropriate dress. Our eyes lock across the space and electricity crackles through my blood.
"Focus," Wilson warns, but it's too late.
Because I'm already remembering everything – her moan from my tongue, her mouth on my dick, her laugh when she kisses me, her faith in me when I had none in myself.
Remembering how she never wanted to fix me. Just wanted to love me.
And I threw it away.
"Knox?" Wilson waves a hand in front of my face. "Next test—"
"I need a microphone."
"What?"
"Now." My voice carries an edge. "Before I lose my nerve."
Someone hands me a mic. Cameras turn. Kennedy starts to stand like she might leave.
"Wait." The word echoes through the arena. She sits back down. "Please."
She stills.
"I owe you an apology." My voice shakes but I force the words out. "Not just for the bar. Or the parking lot. But for not trusting you. For thinking it was about fixing me when it was just about loving me."
