Page 113

I had claimed her.

Now I had to make sure she stayed mine.

The morning dragged, each second stretching thin, pressing against my skull like a dull blade.

I poured coffee into my cracked Team USA mug, the bitter aroma filling the kitchen, doing nothing to shake the restless energy coiling in my chest. I brushed my teeth, the sharp taste of mint cutting through the fog of sleep, jarring me back into a reality that felt too fucking quiet.

I went through the motions—dressed, stepped into my sliders, grabbed my keys—but nothing about today felt normal. Nothing had felt normal since her.

Iris was in my veins now.

I could still hear the ragged sound of her breathing, feel the way she shuddered under my hands. How her body had been taut with defiance but yielded to me all the same. That moment had marked us, and there was no undoing it.

By the time I stepped into the rink, the cold air did nothing to cool the fire still burning in my blood. The sharp bite of the ice under my skates should have cleared my mind—should have given me the focus I needed. Instead, all it did was sharpen what was already there.

I skated slow, deliberate, letting the ice gleam under the overhead lights like a mirror to my thoughts.

Then I saw her.

Fuck.

She walked in like she owned the place, like nothing had changed—but I knew better.

Our eyes locked, and the air between us went thick. My body reacted instantly to her presence, muscles coiling tight with the same hunger that had driven me into her the night before.

But then? She looked away.

Fast.

Like she had been caught.

But not before I saw it—that small twitch of her lips, that almost-smile she tried to bury before it could surface completely. Like she was fighting it. Fighting us.

Too fucking bad.

Because I knew.

She was thinking about it too.

And that single realization sent something dark and electric surging through me, curling around my ribs like a vice.

We were in this now.

And there was no way in hell I was letting her run from it.

Iris Evans was mine.

And fuck if that didn’t light something dangerous inside me.

It wasn’t just about hockey anymore; it hadn’t been for a long time. She wasn’t just another player under my guidance—she was my player.Mygirl. The thought gripped me by the throat, thrilling and infuriating all at once.

But then I saw him.

Chris Langley.

Too fucking close.

His body hovered near hers as they walked in the direction of the locker rooms, his voice low, his laughter slipping between them like a quiet claim. I watched as his hand brushed her shoulder, casual—too casual—and something inside me snapped.