He has that heavy, determined stride I learned to fear during training—the one that usually comes right before an epic blowup or a brutal round of punishment laps.
I don’t move.
I don’t back away.
If he wants to hit me, I’ll take it.
If he wants to yell that I’m not worthy of his daughter, I’ll shut up and listen.
Because he’s probably right.
He stops a step away from me.
We’re the same height, but right now I feel small in front of him.
He looks me straight in the eye. His face is hard, carved by cold air and a father’s worry—but there’s no hatred there. Not the kind I expected.
He lifts a hand.
I tense, bracing for the hit.
Instead, his hand lands on my shoulder.
A heavy, solid clap that rattles my bones. Then it stays there. Tightens.
A grip that isn’t a threat—it’s an anchor.
He leans in, invading my space, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“You’re not your father, Cohen,” he murmurs, rough and low. “You’re a better man than you think. Stop punishing yourself for sins that aren’t yours—and don’t waste this chance.”
He claps my shoulder again—harder this time, almost violent, but threaded with a rough affection that knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Take care of her. Or I’ll kill you. But… I know you will.”
Then he steps back, gives me one sharp nod, and walks away.
I stay there, frozen.
He… knows?
How does he know about my father? And how the hell does he always have this terrifying ability to see straight through people?
On the field, I always thought it was just because he’s damn good at his job.
But this?
This feels different. Like he’s been watching me more closely than I ever realized. Like he understands me better than I’m comfortable with.
My eyes burn. Pressure tightens in my throat—something I haven’t felt in years.
You’re a better man than you think.
Coming from him.
From the man I respect more than anyone.
From the man who knows every one of my flaws.
