Chapter 22
I'm staring at my father's latest threat text when the memory hits, unavoidable now that I've lost everything else worth protecting.
"Got us Christmas money," he slurs, dropping bills on our stained coffee table.
I know the owner of that wallet – Mr. Chen from the corner store. The man who sometimes slips me extra food when Dad drinks our grocery money.
"Dad," I say carefully. "We need to return this."
"Can't." He collapses on the couch. "Might've hurt him. Didn't mean to. He just... wouldn't give it up."
I find Mr. Chen unconscious behind his store. Call an ambulance from a payphone. Help him inside. Clean up the blood before anyone sees.
He never tells the police. Says he fell. Looks at me with pity when I shop there now.
But I helped hide it. Helped protect my father. Became an accomplice to protect the only parent who stayed.
The memory fades, leaving me cold in my truck where I've been sleeping. Five days of avoiding home, avoiding teammates, avoiding everything but practice and memories.
My phone buzzes again.
Dad: Need money. Remember Christmas? Remember what you helped cover up?
Something snaps.
I call him.
"Murphy's," I say when he answers. "One hour. Try to be sober enough to remember this conversation."
He's waiting when I arrive, already three drinks in but trying to hide it. Same haunted eyes I see in the mirror. Same hands that taught me to fight before they taught me to love.
"Son." He tries for a smile. "Knew you'd come around. Family's got to stick—"
"Shut up." I sit across from him, spine straight. "You don't get to talk about family. Not after mom. Not after everything."
"Your mother left us—"
"She left you." The words taste like freedom. "And I should have left too. Should have called the cops about Mr. Chen. Should have stopped protecting you years ago."
He pales.
"I'm not giving you money." My voice stays steady. "I'm not protecting you anymore. And if you ever threaten me or anyone I care about again, I'll tell the police everything. About Christmas. About mom. About all of it."
"You wouldn't." But his hands shake. "I'm your father."
"No." I stand, feeling taller somehow. "You're just the man who taught me everything I never want to be."
I leave him there, small and pathetic in the bar light. Leave the ghosts of Christmas past and the weight of his sins and everything I've been carrying.
Leave the boy who thought protecting him meant loving him.
My phone buzzes as I exit – not my father this time.
Grey: Team dinner at Pietro's. Might want to skip it.
I should. But something pulls me there anyway.
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."
Whispers ripple through the crowd. Scouts frantically scribble notes.
"I thought..." I swallow hard. "I thought pushing you away would protect you. Thought being alone was better than risking becoming him. My father. The man who taught me love always ends in damage."
Kennedy's hand comes up to her throat.
"But I was wrong. Because you never wanted to fix me. Never needed me to be perfect. You just wanted me – messy and complicated and real. And I was too scared to believe that."
"Knox," Wilson hisses. "The combine—"
"Is less important than this." I meet Kennedy's eyes across the space. "Less important than telling you I'm sorry. That I love you. That I'll spend every day proving I'm worthy of your faith if you'll let me."
Silence falls over the arena.
"I know I don't deserve another chance." My voice cracks. "Know I hurt you in ways I can't take back. But I'm not running anymore. Not from you. Not from us. Not from how terrifying it is to be loved by you."
Tears slip down her cheeks.
"So this is me choosing you. In front of everyone. Before the combine. Before the draft. Before everything." I take a shaky breath. "Because you were right – I am a coward. I’m sorry."
She stands slowly.
"I love you, Kennedy Walters. The real you – not the senator's daughter or the perfect campaign prop. Just you. I love you."
The mic falls from my hand. Cameras flash. Scouts whisper.
And Kennedy...
And Kennedy walks away.
My heart stops as she disappears through the arena doors. Whispers ripple through the crowd. Wilson puts his head in his hands. Scouts scribble furiously.
I just torched my draft chances for nothing.
"Well," Coach Evans says quietly. "That was either the bravest or stupidest thing I've ever seen."
"Both." I hand him my combine number. "I'm done for the day."
"Knox—"
But I'm already moving, following her path through the arena. Because if this is my last chance, I'm not wasting it on vertical jumps and sprint times.
I find her in the parking lot, pacing beside her car.
"Kenny."
"You don't get to do that." She whirls on me, tears streaming. "Don't get to make some grand declaration in front of everyone after pushing me away. After making me feel so fucking stupid. After—"
I kiss her.
Not gentle or careful or worthy of cameras. But desperate and real and everything I've been holding back. She responds instantly, hands fisting in my combine shirt as she kisses back with equal force.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I'm sorry," I say against her lips. "For everything. I’m so fucking sorry."
"Shut up." She kisses me again, shorter this time. "Just... shut up for a minute."
I hold her close and breathe her in and wait for whatever verdict she's about to deliver.
"You hurt me." Her voice cracks. "And I hate you for it."
"I know."
"And now you've probably ruined your combine scores."
"Worth it."
She pulls back to study my face. "It’s not. You need to get back in there."
"I faced him." The words come easier now. "My dad. Told him I'm done being scared of becoming him. Done letting his demons control my future."
"You did?"
"And then I saw you with Harvey."
"Nothing happened."
"I know." I brush away a tear on her cheek. "But watching you with him – someone good and safe and uncomplicated – it made me realize something."
"What?"
"That I'd rather lose the draft than lose you." The truth feels like freedom. "Rather risk everything than watch you be happy with someone else. Rather be real and messy and yours than without you."
Fresh tears spill. "You're such an idiot."
"I know."
"Could have realized this before I cried for a week straight."
"I know."
"You have to earn back my trust."
"I know." I press my forehead to hers. "Give me the chance? Please?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "The combine..."
"Doesn't matter."
"But your future."
"Is standing right here." I cup her face in my hands.
"I can’t let you throw it away."
She kisses me then – soft and sweet and full of promise.
"Knox!" Wilson's voice carries across the parking lot. "Get your ass back in there. Still have three tests left."
Kennedy pulls back, laughing. "Go. Show them what you can do now that you're not carrying all that weight."
"Come with me?"
"Always." She wipes her eyes.
We walk back into the arena hand in hand. Scouts whisper. Cameras flash. My father's latest threat sits unanswered on my phone.
None of it matters.
Because Kennedy's smiling at me again.
"Kick ass." she squeezes my hand as Wilson waves me over.
I kiss her once more, quick and claiming.
"For you, Princess."