Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Kyle
Iturn and head back the way I came, the soles of my shoes catching against the polished floor. The elevator waits at the end of the hall, doors sliding open with a soft chime.
As I step inside, movement catches my eye. The security guard from earlier leans on the desk, coffee in hand. When our eyes meet, a knowing grin tugs at his mouth. My own grin slips into place without effort. A silent promise that I’ll survive whatever’s waiting upstairs.
The ride back up to Cooper’s office feels longer this time.
I probably look like every other guy who thinks he’s in control when he’s already gone.
The doors open, and the building feels louder somehow, every voice and footstep bouncing off my skin.
Heads turn as I pass, eyes flicking over me with the same look I’ve been seeing since the draft: recognition, curiosity, and doubt all tangled together.
To them, I’m not Kyle. I’m a last name on skates.
A storyline they’ve already decided how to sell.
I grin anyway, an easy, careless curve of my mouth that says I belong here. It’s a lie, but it’s one I’ve been perfecting my whole life. Be charming and better than the rumors. If you shine bright enough, maybe they won’t look close enough to see the cracks.
Each step toward Cooper’s office tightens something in my chest. I’m about to face my big brother—the guy who taught me how to hold a stick and the coach who could bench me without blinking.
I don’t know which version I’m getting today.
The brother who snuck me extra ice time when I was twelve, or the coach who told me I wasn’t ready for this team.
I get why he can’t be both. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a part of me that still wants him to try.
I lift my hand and knock once, sharp enough to sound confident, soft enough to hide the rest. Then I push the door open and step inside.
Cooper sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pen moving in careful, precise strokes.
I stand there for a beat, waiting for him to look up.
When he finally does, his eyes sweep over me in that same old assessment.
It used to mean he was about to tell me to fix my stance or watch my angles.
Now it just tells me I’ve already made his day harder.
“You’re late.”
“I know. You should be proud, though. That’s consistency.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as he leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a lineup problem he didn’t ask for.
“Media training ended almost thirty minutes ago.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say, dropping into the chair across from him. “I ran into a minor delay.”
“Momma called and said you got a flat tire.”
“Did she also say she made cinnamon rolls?”
“I don’t care about the cinnamon rolls.”
“You should. They were life changing.”
The grin I throw at him is automatic, but Cooper isn’t buying it. Just like Beau, I turn things into a joke until no one remembers the point. It works most of the time, but not with him. Cooper’s silence cuts through me.
“This isn’t high school, Kyle. You don’t get an excused absence just because Momma called in to say you’ll be late.”
He says it as if he’s trying to make a point, but I hear what’s underneath. The unspoken part that sounds more like you can’t keep doing this, kid.
“I don’t know, Coach. Sounds like I’ve got a solid support system.” I shift in the chair, the fake grin slipping into something smaller.
He doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, I wish he’d just yell. Yelling used to mean he cared enough to lose his temper. This quiet version makes me feel like I’m already losing ground.
“You need to start acting like a professional,” he says finally, and it lands harder than it should.
I nod just enough to make it look like I agree, but the truth burns behind my ribs.
I’ve been acting like a professional since I was seventeen, grinding through road games and summer leagues while everyone assumed I’d coast on my name.
I earned this shot. I fought for it when he told me I wasn’t ready.
I’ve done everything Cooper has asked, but none of it ever seems to matter.
The only thing anyone cares about is the name stitched across my shoulders.
The silence stretches, pressing against my back, so I do what I always do: smirk, lean back, and pretend I don’t care. Before I can say something reckless, the door swings open.
“Look at that.” Cole’s voice fills the office, smooth and too loud. “Baby brother survives another Hendrix lecture.”
Beau follows, carrying a tray of coffees like a peace offering. He hands one to Cooper, one to me, and keeps the last for himself.
“Didn’t know we were having a family meeting,” I say, taking a sip.
“Neither did I,” Cooper mutters, though there’s a flicker of something softer in his tone.
“Then call it an intervention.” Cole drops into the chair beside me. “We figured you’d need one before preseason even starts.”
“Appreciate the faith.”
Beau leans calmly against the wall, making it impossible to argue with him. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been here five minutes, and the internet’s already debating whether you’re the future of the team or the next PR crisis.”
“Correction,” I say, taking another drink, “they’re calling me entertaining.”
“You’re a walking headline, Kyle.” Cooper sighs into his coffee. “You always have been.”
I bite back a smile, even though we all know it hasn’t always been the good kind of headline.
“At least he’s good for ratings,” Cole adds, his grin sharp and easy.
“Keep talking. Maybe they’ll start a nostalgia tour for washed-up centers.”
Cole presses a hand to his chest, mock offended. “Ouch. The rookie bites back.”
“Can we not fight before lunch?” Beau smirks over the rim of his cup.
The room hums with familiar laughter, but it twists under my skin anyway.
This is what we do: throw jabs to hide the bruises.
Cole’s grin is pure older-brother arrogance, but I can feel the truth underneath it.
He doesn’t mean harm. He never does, but every time he jokes about me being a headline or a risk, it stings because it reminds me how easily I’ve become both.
I grin back because that’s the only way I know how to stay part of this.
If I stop smiling, if I let anything real slip through, the room changes.
The tension creeps back in, and I don’t want that from them.
Not when all I’ve ever wanted is to be seen as one of them, not the brother they have to fix or defend.
So, the mask always stays on, practiced and perfect.
“Relax, nobody’s betting you’ll tank before the season starts. Well, nobody in this room, anyway.” Cole leans back in his chair, stretching an arm across the back like he owns the place.
“Touching. Man, do I feel the brotherly support.”
“Hey, don’t start crying on me.” He grins. “I left my tissues in Michele’s purse.”
That earns him a laugh, even though I don’t mean it to.
The sound surprises me, and for a second, the edge in my chest eases.
We didn’t use to be like this. For most of my life, Cole and I could barely get through a meal without taking verbal swings at each other.
Then he went and fell head over heels for my best friend, and somehow the universe decided to make it work.
Now he’s the one I can talk to. The one who gets the pressure, the noise, and the constant fight to prove you’re not the family’s second choice.
If anyone understands how it feels to screw up and still try to do better, it’s him.
“Tell Michele I said hi,” I say, half smiling. “And that she could’ve done worse.”
“You’re damn right she could have. She almost did. Remember when she thought you were cute?”
“Still am.”
“We all know that’s debatable,” Beau murmurs as he takes a seat, a smile tugging at his mouth.
I look at him, and something in my chest softens. Beau’s always been the steady one. The peacekeeper, when the rest of us were too busy crashing into each other. He’s the one who kept track of holidays, who texted reminders to call Momma, who made sure nobody disappeared for too long.
He’s the same as always, shoulders relaxed, voice carefree.
But when he reaches for his coffee again, I see the faint tremor in his fingers.
It’s small, almost nothing, but my stomach tightens anyway.
A reminder that no matter how solid he looks, he’s still fighting battles the rest of us can’t see.
“Still can’t believe you kept your diagnosis a secret as long as you did,” I say, before I can stop myself. The words come out low, sharper than I intend.
Beau’s eyes lift to mine, calm and unreadable. “Yeah. Me, neither.”
He doesn’t flinch or get defensive, which just makes it worse. Part of me wants him to. I want him to admit it hurt that he didn’t let us in. But he won’t. Not Beau. Not when he’s spent his whole life carrying everyone else.
I shake my head, the words rough in my throat. “You have us, Beau. You didn’t have to carry it alone.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer. We’ve had this non-conversation before. It always ends the same—both of us staring at the same spot on the floor, trying to understand how a guy who’s so good at saving everyone else forgot how to ask for help himself.
And yeah, I’m still angry. It lives low and sharp in my gut because I recognize the instinct. Hold it together. Don’t let anyone see you crack. If you never admit you’re hurting, nobody can treat you like you’re broken.
“You’re lucky Alise is more stubborn than you.”
The smile he gives me is small but real. “Don’t I know it.”