The dining room was too quiet.

Too polished. Too perfect. Every piece of silverware shining, every plate white as bone, every flower in the centerpiece arranged like it had been threatened into obedience.

Cole sat stiffly, his jaw locked, his hands under the table, fists closed.

His father cleared his throat. That was the warning sign.

The one that meant something unpleasant was coming.

“We need to discuss your future, Cole.”

There it was.

Cole didn’t look up. He just kept slicing into his steak, slow and steady.

“My future is fine,” he said coldly.

His mother’s voice came next—softer, but somehow sharper.

“Hockey is a hobby,” she said with that patient, polite tone she used when talking to children. “It was good for discipline. For physicality. But it’s time to grow out of it.”

Cole’s knife stopped mid-cut.

“It’s not a hobby.”

His father leaned back, folding his arms. A power pose. One he knew was intimidating.

“Cole. The Matthews corporation needs a successor. A real one. Someone focused. Someone disciplined. You have one year left before you intern. I will not have you wasting your time chasing childish fantasies.”

Cole’s heart thudded once—hard.

“It’s not a fantasy,” he shot back quietly.

“You’re good,” his father allowed. “You’re not great. Only great pays. Only great survives.”

Cole’s jaw twitched.

He was great. He had been scouted twice. He had offers waiting. He had talent that could split open stadiums.

His father said it like it was a lottery ticket. Like it was luck.

“You think I’m doing this for fun?” Cole said, his voice tightening. “Hockey is the only place where I—”

He bit the rest back.

He would not give his father something emotional to use as a weapon.

His mother dabbed her mouth with a napkin, calm as porcelain.

“We are not paying for you to chase adrenaline,” she said. “We are shaping a legacy.”

Cole laughed once. Quiet. Bitter.

“Your legacy. Not mine.”

The temperature in the room dropped instantly.

His father’s voice shifted—cold steel.

“You will quit the team.”

Cole’s head snapped up.

“No.”

“You will.”

“No.”

The echo of it hung like a slammed door.

His father leaned forward.

“You think this makes you strong? Defiant?”

Cole didn’t blink.

His father’s lip curled slightly—just enough to show irritation.

“You are sloppy.”

That one hit. Right between the ribs.

Cole forced his face blank.

His father continued.

“You drink. You fight. You behave like a stray. You have no control, no restraint, no focus. Hockey has made you reckless. Stupid.”

Cole swallowed. Hard.

He wanted to shove his chair back. He wanted to break something. He wanted to walk out.

But he didn’t.

His mother sighed like the disappointment personally exhausted her.

“We worry about you,” she said, touching her necklace—not him. Never him. “We simply want what’s best.”

Cole’s throat felt thick.

“I know exactly what’s best for me.”

“Hockey is not a future.”

His mother said it gently.

And that softness, that gentle dismissal, hurt more than his father’s attack.

Cole’s voice came out quieter than before.

“Hockey is the only thing I’m good at.”

His mother’s expression did not change.

“Then you are not good at anything that matters.”

Silence.

Heavy. Final.

Cole pushed his chair back slowly. Too quietly.

Because if he moved fast, he’d break.

He stood.

“Thank you for lunch.”

His father didn’t look at him.

His mother didn’t stop him.

He walked out of the dining room, through the marble hallway, past the expensive art, past the portraits of polished, perfect Matthews men who never cracked.

His chest felt like it was caving in.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached the front door.

And when it shut behind him, the breath he’d been holding finally tore out of his chest—sharp and shaking.

Cold air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the burn beneath his skin.

He should’ve been thinking about hockey.

About the next game.

About practice schedules.

About proving his father wrong.

But all he could think about was her.

Clara.

The way her voice had cracked when she yelled at him.

The way she tried to hide her tears, like crying was a crime.

The way she had looked so breakable… and still so damn beautiful.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice.

He had messed up.

He’d never cared before. Not about anyone. Not like this.

But the image of her crying wouldn’t leave him.

Her shaking hands.

Her trembling breath.

The hurt in her eyes that he caused — even if he didn’t mean to.

Of all the chaos in his life, of all the noise, the pressure, the weight—

she was the only thing his mind kept going back to.

Cole exhaled, rough and pained.

He didn’t know what to call this feeling.

But he knew one thing for sure:

He needed to fix it.

He needed to fix her.

He needed her.