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Instead, she laughed with Brooke as they circled back to the blue line, their breathless amusement carrying across the ice like a blade against my skin. Something dark curled inside me at the sound—jealousy, frustration, something I didn’t have the patience to name.

She didn’t look my way. Didn’t acknowledge my voice when I barked out commands. Didn’t react when I pushed the pace harder.

And that stung more than it should have.

“Keep your head up!” I snapped during a drill, watching her weave past defenders like they were nothing. Perfect form. Perfect execution. Perfect fucking indifference.

By the time practice hit a pause for water breaks, I was still standing by the boards, fists clenched at my sides, trying to cool the heat simmering in my blood.

Then she glanced at me. Just for a second.

And in that second, I saw it—saw the flicker of something unsteady in her expression before she shut it down and turned back to Brooke like I wasn’t even there.

Like we hadn’t spent yesterday in the locker room, gasping each other’s names.

I forced a slow breath through my nose, swallowing down the raw, irrational urge to pull her off the ice and remind her exactly what this was.

Why couldn’t she see me?

Why did everything feel different?

Why the fuck did it feel like I was the only one losing my mind over this?

After practice,I stormed into my office, ripped off my skates, and let them hit the rubber floor with a hollow, metallic clatter. The sound echoed in the empty rink, underscoring the frustration coiling tight in my chest. Everyone else had cleared out, leaving behind only silence and the lingering bite of cold air.

But I wasn’t ready to leave.

Without thinking, I pushed to my feet, shoved my hands deep in my pockets, and made my way toward the locker room. My pulse pounded in my throat as I leaned against the wall, jaw tight, waiting.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t how I operated. But none of this was.

Everything with her felt reckless. Raw.

I needed more than just watching her on the ice, more than stolen moments and fading bruises. I needed her here, in front of me. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she couldn’t ignore the weight of this thing between us.

The seconds stretched, tension twisting tighter inside me. I told myself to leave—to be smarter—but then the door swung open.

And there she was.

Iris stepped into the hallway, hair damp, cheeks still flushed from practice, her breathing steady but tired. She paused for a beat, just enough time for me to drink her in—the way loose strands stuck to her skin, the slight drop of her shoulders, the exhaustion wrapped around her like a second jersey.

My chest tightened.

She was beautiful like this—unguarded, stripped down to something real. Not just a player. Not just a competitor.

Mine.

She caught my gaze, hesitating. For a second, I thought she’d keep walking, pretend she didn’t see me. But she didn’t. Instead, she looked away—just for a beat—before a soft flush crept up her throat, betraying her.

She felt it too.

“Hey,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wasn’t sure what to say. That hesitance flickered across her face—curiosity, caution, something else lurking beneath the surface.

“Knox,” she murmured, stepping closer.

The air shifted, thick with unspoken words and everything we’d refused to acknowledge.