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It wasn’t fear.

It was a fucking challenge.

And it was all I could think about.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the boards, arms crossed, jaw tight—pretending I wasn’t tracking every step she took toward the locker room.

Her posture was straight, proud—but I knew better.

I knew she was still feeling me.

Still hearing my voice in her ear.

Still wearing the weight of me pressing her into the glass.

I almost let her go.

But then—because I couldn’t fucking help myself—I let my voice cut through the rink. Low. Sharp. Meant for her and only her.

“Nice moves, Evans.”

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

Just pulled her shoulders back tighter like she was made of steel.

But I saw the pause.

Saw the tension crawl up her spine.

And I fucking grinned.

Because I was in there now.

Right under her skin.

Same place she was in me.

Most players would’ve cracked today.

Would’ve let me crush them under my weight and walked away scared.

But not her.

She fought.

And it made me want to push her harder.

To see what else I could pull out of her.

See if I could break her—or if she’d come back stronger.

I pushed off the boards, taking a slow step forward, eyes still on the door where she’d disappeared.

My pulse was still jacked from practice.

Or maybe just from her.