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 likeyou 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, grindingthrough 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.”
