KNOX’S POV
For a split second, I felt nothing but the impact. A heavy, dead-weight blow hit me right between the eyes, making my vision flash white. My ears began to ring, and I reeled back, instantly losing my balance.
Then came the heat, followed by the slow, warm trickle of blood.
"Oh my god!" Milo screamed from the bench, jumping up and banging his stick against the boards. "She sniped him! She actually sniped the captain!"
"Sheridan? You okay?" Theo’s voice sounded muffled over the haze of the pain.
My hands flew to my face, and when I pulled them away, my palms were wet and covered in bright, thick blood. It was already dripping down my lip and staining my gray practice jersey.
The bridge of my nose throbbed with a blinding, white-hot ache that made my eyes water.
"Are you fucking insane?" I roared, taking a hard step toward her, the blades of my skates digging deep into the ice. I wanted to shake her, to throw her stick into the stands, to do anything to wipe that stupid, defiant smirk off her face. "You threw a puck at my face! You’re a lunatic!"
I had expected her to cry, to walk away, or to sign the logs in defeat... not throw a rubber puck at my face.
She was still sitting on the ice, looking like a pint-sized, frozen psycho with her hair spilling out of its clip. Yet, she didn’t flinch or offer an apology. Instead, she glared back at me with her chin raised in defiance.
"What is going on out here?"
Coach Brennan’s voice boomed from the tunnel, instantly silencing the rink. He marched onto the bench, looking furious red as he clutched a stack of papers. He stopped dead, looking from the blood on my face to the puck resting near my skates, and finally to Nora, who was still sitting on the ice.
"Sheridan, why are you bleeding?" Brennan demanded.
"She threw a puck at me," I spat as I pressed my sleeve against my nose to stop the flow.
"She sniped him, Coach!" Milo yelled from the bench, grinning like a maniac. "Dead center!"
"Shut up, Milo!" Brennan snapped. He rubbed his temples, looking like he was about to have a stroke. "Both of you. In my office. Right now."
We skated off the ice in tense silence. I ripped my skates off in the locker room, not even bothering to untie them properly, and grabbed a towel to press against my face.
By the time we walked down the hallway toward the office, other athletes were already staring and muttering at the blood on my jersey.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in Brennan’s leather chair, holding a wad of bloody paper towels to the bridge of my nose.
The pain had settled into a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes, making my temple twitch. Nora stood by the door with her hands tucked into her wet jeans, still looking completely unapologetic.
"I want her fired, Coach," I grunted. "She’s a liability. She could have blinded me."
"You agreed to the wager, Sheridan," Nora replied almost immediately. "You said if I put a puck in the net, you’d cooperate. You didn’t specify that I had to use a stick."
I sat forward, pulling the paper towel away to glare at her. "You threw it at my face!"
"I threw it at the net," she lied smoothly without even blinking. "You got in the way."
"Enough!" Brennan slammed his hand on the desk. He didn’t look at either of us, staring instead at the printout before him with a tight jaw. "We have a massive problem."
"What’s wrong, Coach?" I asked. "I’m passing the weekly quizzes. The academic board has no reason to touch my eligibility for another five weeks."
"They do now," Brennan said, throwing the paper across the desk. "The Academic Standards review board just moved your evaluation up. They want a full mid-semester evaluation in two weeks. Not five."
"Two weeks?" Nora gasped, stepping forward. "That’s impossible. We haven’t even had our first official session."
"They’re targeting me," I muttered, my hands clenching into fists. "Why the sudden change? Who pulled that string?"
Brennan looked down at his desk, refusing to meet my eyes. The silence in the room told me everything I needed to know.
I let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Let me guess... my father."
"Knox..." Brennan started.
"Don’t," I cut him off, grabbing my gear bag from the floor. "My father doesn’t request things, Coach. He demands them."
I stormed out of the athletic building, the cold air hitting my face but doing nothing to cool the anger boiling under my skin.
I didn’t even bother showering or changing out of my practice gear. I just grabbed my car keys, drove straight to the Briar Country Club, and walked past the hosts directly to the private dining room where I knew my father was holding his weekly booster dinner.
The country club’s private dining room smelled of expensive steaks and cigar smoke. I stood by the door, still wearing my damp practice gear.
I knew I looked ridiculous... my nose was swollen and I smelled like sweat and bleach, standing next to polished wood and white tablecloths. A few of the donors stared, their conversations dropping to a whisper when they spotted me.
My father, Garrison Sheridan, sat at the head of a long mahogany table.
He didn’t look surprised to see me. He simply offered a polite nod to the men around him, excused himself, and walked over to the quiet corner of the private bar.
"Your nose is swollen," he said, taking a slow sip of his wine and looking as cold as ever in his bespoke suit.
"Minor accident at practice," I replied, keeping my voice low. "Why did you move the compliance review, Dad? You’re trying to get me suspended."
I knew exactly how much power he held. As the athletic department’s largest booster and a member of the university’s Board of Trustees, he practically owned the athletic director. If he wanted my academic review moved up, the compliance board wouldn’t even hesitate.
"I am protecting the family legacy, Knox," he said calmly. "Your behavior this semester has been a distraction. The parties, the academic warnings... it’s embarrassing. The Sheridan brand is built on excellence, not mediocrity."
"I’m passing my quizzes," I spat.
"For now. But you are not NHL material if you cannot control your life," he replied. "You spend your time frolicking around campus with puck bunnies and showing up in gossip columns. NHL executives don’t want a liability, Knox. They want a brand."
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "I’ve spoken with Harold Orwell. The Orwell family controls the largest development firm in the state, and his daughter Vanessa is returning from Paris. Their connections are exactly the kind of leverage your career needs."
"That being said, I expect you to accompany her to the Boosters Gala in two weeks," my father finished. "It’s time you start presenting yourself as a man of status."
My stomach churned as I stared at him. "An arranged setup? Are you serious? I’m not dating Vanessa just to boost your portfolio."
"You will," my father said, leaning forward. "If you refuse, I will personally instruct Pierce and the board to declare you ineligible. You’ll be forced to transfer to a state college where I can oversee your schedule. The choice is yours, Knox. You either play by my rules, or you don’t play at all."