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While I was just the past.

She was the player he wanted—the one he was betting everything on. And every time I saw her skate, every time I heard his voice laced with pride when he said her name—it gutted me. It was like he was looking at the son he wished he had.

So yeah, I told myself I hated her.

But that was a lie.

Or at least, it wasn’t the whole truth.

Because every time I closed my eyes, I felt her against me. The weight of her body pinned under mine. The tension in her muscles as she shoved back. The sound of her breath catching—sharp, angry—right before she snapped at me.

It was still in my fucking veins.

She didn’t crumble.

She fought me.

And something in me—something ugly and starved—wanted more.

More of that defiance.

More of her teeth bared and eyes burning.

More of her body fighting against mine.

It lit me up in a way nothing had in years.

I could still feel it—the heat of her breath near my ear, her chest pressing into mine, the faintest brush of her hip as she twisted against me.

It made my pulse pound in my ears like a fucking war drum. Made me want to push her harder. Trap her there longer. See what it would take to break her.

And the fucked-up part?

I didn’t even know if I wanted her to break. Or if I wanted her to survive it—just so I could do it all over again.

I gripped my stick tighter, like that would help. Like I could grind down the need that was already crawling under my skin.

I wanted to strip that polished, perfect veneer off her—tear it away until I found what was underneath.

Because I knew it was there.

I felt it when she pushed back—when she met me, hit for hit.

That fire.

That fucking fire.

I wanted to drag it all out of her.

Even if it burned us both down.

And maybe, deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about her. It was about me. About seeing if I could still push someone to their limit—without dragging us both over the edge.

Or maybe I wanted to see what happened if we fell.

Together.

I couldn’t shake the image of her in that sweater. With her perfect curls and that fierce look in her eyes, gliding across the ice like she owned it. The Crestwood logo stretched across her chest, bright against that white fabric. But the thought twisted—because it wasn’t just the Crestwood name I saw.