Chapter 19
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 her hips, 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.
"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.
"You want the real me?" Something dark uncurls in my chest. "Fine. The real me wants to put my father through a fucking wall every time I see him. Wants to fight anyone who looks at you wrong. Gets so jealous when other guys talk to you that I can barely think straight."
"Good." She steps closer. "What else?"
"The real me is possessive and angry and scared of how much I need you." The words pour out like blood. "Scared that one day you'll realize I'm just like him – violent and selfish and—"
"Stop." Her hands fist in my shirt. "You are nothing like him. Nothing."
"You don't fucking know that."
"I do." She rises on tiptoes, forcing me to look at her. "Because he runs from his demons. You face yours. He hurts people he loves. You protect them. He's weak, Knox. You are the strongest person I know."
Something breaks in my chest. "I don’t know what you think this is. I take your virginity, fuck you mad, and then what? Huh?" I glare at her. "I can't be what you deserve."
"I don't want what I deserve. I want you. The real you. Not some perfect version you think I need."
"The real me," I laugh. "You wouldn’t last two fucking minutes with the side of me that I bury, the side that I fight every single fucking day to keep hidden. Why the fuck do you think I’m so good at hockey, huh? There’s a whole fucked up side to me that you don’t know.
The side that that man back there raised me to be.
So yeah, if you want to be mad that I’ve put on the act of being the perfect fucking boyfriend.
A solid hockey player to secure my future, then so fucking be it, Kennedy.
You would leave me if you knew." I chuckle. "If you only fucking knew."
She shakes her head vigorously.
I step to her. "You would leave in a fucking heartbeat."
Tears fall from her eyes as she’s still shaking her head. "I wouldn’t." She grabs my face even though I’m fuming. "I would never leave you. I'm tired of pretending. Tired of watching you try to be something you're not. I see you, Knox. I do."
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in. "I don't know how to do this. I don’t know, Kenny."
"Do what?"
"Be loved by you."
Her breath catches. "Maybe time?"
But I can't. I’m already fucking it up, and she knows it. That’s why she’s crying. Because loving her – really loving her – means risking everything. Means being vulnerable in ways I don't know how to be.
"The two weeks..." My voice roughens. "I can't..."
"Can't?"
"Can't take that from you." I pull back, hating myself. "Can't be this ideal boyfriend you've built up in your head. Can't handle the pressure of your expectations on top of everything else."
"I don't expect—"
"You do." The words taste bitter. "You want some epic love story. The bad boy changes for the good girl. But I can't be that, Kennedy. I can't be your perfect man."
Hurt floods her face. "You can, Knox. Listen to me. Yes, you can."
"Can’t I? The countdown to losing your virginity?
The campaign appearances? The family photos?
" I laugh bitterly. "You're so caught up in the idea of us that you forgot that I'm just a person.
Someone who fucks up and gets angry and can't always be what you need.
I cannot always be a good fucking person. "
"Knox—"
"No! I’m human. And I can't do this anymore." The words feel like glass in my throat. "Can't keep pretending and acting like I deserve you. I don’t. I can't keep trying to live up to impossible standards."
"So, you're ending things?" Her voice breaks. "With me?"
"I should have let you blackmail me." I step back, putting distance between us. "That would’ve been a lot easier than this."
"This has always been real." Tears spill down her cheeks. "Knox. Always. At least for me."
I force myself to turn away, to walk to my truck without looking back. Because if I see her crying – if I let myself acknowledge the pain in her voice – I'll break.
And I can't break. Not now. Not with the combine and scouts watching and everything I've worked for finally in reach.
Even if it means losing the one thing that makes it all worth it.
Even if it means breaking both our hearts.