Page 78 of Lost Hope

“Blue? Living with his grandma after both parents got locked up. Jamal’s family lost everything in the Paradise fire, moved here for a fresh start. Every one of these kids has a story.” Christian paused, something fierce in his expression. “But they show up. Every practice, every workout. Keep their grades up, stay clean. That’s all I ask. Foundation covers the rest—gear, ice time, tournament fees.”

“You’re changing lives,” Ronan said quietly, meaning it.

Christian shrugged, but Ronan caught the pleased look that crossed his face. “You should think about coaching. You’re good with them.”

Ronan barked out a laugh. “Right. The Hollywood kid who’s never been on skates. That’ll work great.”

“You could learn?—”

“Like you did? Growing up in Colorado with skiing trips and hunting weekends and perfect nuclear family ice skating sessions?” The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. “Besides, I’ll be gone as soon as this mess is cleared up.”

Christian stopped moving, turned to face him fully. “Gone where?”

“Somewhere.” Ronan kept his eyes on the weight rack. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Right. Because running away is definitely the answer.” Christian’s voice held an edge. “You know what these kids have taught me? Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t surviving the bad stuff. It’s learning to accept the good stuff when it comes along.”

“Deep thoughts from Coach Murphy?” Ronan tried for sarcasm, but it fell flat.

“Just something to think about, little brother.” Christian grabbed his water bottle, but before he could say more, the gym door opened.

Maya stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, early morning light casting her silhouette. For a moment, no one moved. The air hardened with unspoken words.

Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second before sliding away.

He managed a curt nod, focusing intently on rewrapping a loose jump rope, his movements precise. Professional. Distant.

She crossed to the far side of the gym, her steps measured, spine straight enough to make a drill sergeant proud. The soft thud of her bag hitting the floor echoed in the loaded silence.

Christian let out a low whistle. “You know, I wondered if you inherited your mom’s emotional intelligence or Dad’s complete lack of the same.” He shouldered his bag. “Question answered.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, just observing.” Christian paused at the door. “Though I gotta say, for a tactical genius, you’re being impressively stupid right now.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Ronan alone with the neatly racked weights, the perfectly coiled jump rope, and the growing certainty that he was systematically destroying every good thing in his life.

Nothing new there.

38

FIGHTING FORM

Maya waiteduntil Ronan’s footsteps faded before she unleashed her first punch at the heavy bag. The impact jarred through her wrapped knuckles, satisfaction mixing with fury. Another punch. And another. Each one harder than the last.

Wounded warrior act. Right.

She’d fallen for it like some rookie. Let herself believe there was something real beneath those walls he built. That all those moments of connection—finishing each other’s tactical thoughts, moving in perfect sync during the op, the way he’d looked at her when he thought no one was watching—meant something.

The bag swung wildly as she landed a particularly vicious combination. Her father’s voice cut through the rhythm of her strikes.

“Your elbow is dropping.”

“Not now, Dad.” She caught the bag, steadying it, refusing to turn around.

“Want to talk about it?”

Seriously? Hard no.

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