“She’s all I have left,” he whispers, too raw for the public man.
“I know,” I say, and my throat tightens despite me. “She’s all I have, too. That’s why this matters.”
His head tilts. His eyes search mine, looking for weakness, for ego, for lies. I let him look. He won’t find any.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and bitter. “You’ll ruin your career.”
“I don’t care,” I say simply.
“And hers?”
“She’s stronger than both of us combined,” I answer, without hesitation. “If you don’t know that by now, you’re not watching the right game.”
He almost smiles at that, except it hurts too much to be funny. His eyes soften a fraction, then harden again like steel reheated and quenched.
“You’ll never be good enough for her,” he says, voice stripped down to the bone.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I’ll never stop trying, though.”
Silence. The kind that could break or bind.
At last, he steps closer, so close I can smell the faint edge of his cologne and the coffee he hasn’t had time to reheat. His voice is a razor pressed against my skin.
“You hurt her once, Knight. Once. And I don’t care if it’s the playoffs, I’ll take you off the ice myself. You won’t walk back into my locker room, and you sure as hell won’t walk back into her life.”
I nod, steady. “Fair. But I won’t give you a reason to.”
His eyes search mine again. I let him. He doesn’t scare me anymore, not in the way he used to. But I respect the storm in him, because it’s built from love.
He leans back, straightens his jacket, pulls the mask of Coach Wayne Michael back over his grief. “We go back in there. We smile. We give them the show. After tonight, we’ll talk again.”
“Copy,” I say, because Sammie will smile if she hears it later.
He shakes his head like he can’t believe my gall. Then he opens the door. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses rushes in.
“Remember,” he says, one last warning before he crosses the threshold. “This is my house.”
“Not anymore,” I whisper to the empty hall after he’s gone. “It’s hers.”
I square my shoulders, let the captain settle back over my bones, and step out into the lights.
Sammie
The ballroom looks polished again by the time they return. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the last ten minutes were just another glitch in a long night — a fork dropped, a server late with drinks, a string of lights flickering before the tech crew steadied it. But I know better.
I feel it in the way the air bends when they walk back in together. My father first, jaw set, stride crisp. Triston just a pace behind, shoulders square, eyes unreadable but steady. They look like two men who stepped into a storm and came out alive, neither victorious nor broken. Just… changed.
I’m holding a clipboard when I see them. A stupid prop, really — I don’t need it, the run-of-show is already engraved into my skull — but it gives my hands something to grip. My fingers ache from holding it so tight.
The donors are buzzing, though they try to hide it behind champagne sips and brittle smiles. The wives lean together, whispering, their eyes darting between me, Triston, and my father. Teammates at the back look rattled, like they’re waiting to see if this ends in a benching or a miracle.
I stand taller. My spine remembers every posture lesson I ever resented. I will not be small in the room I built.
Dad climbs the stage, taps the mic once. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he booms, smooth as always, “thank you for joining us tonight for a cause that matters more than any game.” The crowd hushes, as if the tension never happened. He’s that good. A lifetime of storms taught him how to pretend the ice is always smooth.
Triston doesn’t follow him to the stage. He slips through the crowd until he’s close enough for me to feel his presence. He doesn’t touch me — not here, not yet — but his nearness is a balm and a brand all at once. I glance up, and he gives me the smallest nod. The one that saysI’m here. I’m not leaving. Whatever happens, we stand together.
The speech rolls on. Dad talks about community, about the Cats being more than a team, about family. Every word carries double weight now. I don’t flinch. I don’t look down. I let the spotlight fall, and I don’t hide in its glow.
