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Isat in the stands, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched, a shadow among the crowd. I shouldn’t have come. I told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t. That I couldn’t.

But here I was, watching her skate under the bright lights, heart hammering like I was the one on the ice.

She looked unstoppable.

Fast. Sharp. Fucking lethal. She moved like she owned the rink, every shift of her body precise, controlled. And that jersey—the Team USA crest stretched across her chest—had never looked better on anyone.

Pride surged through me, so fierce it almost brought me to my knees. She made it. And yet, the ache beneath it was just as sharp, carving through my ribs like a blade.

She had made it without me.

I gripped the railing in front of me, knuckles white, trying to anchor myself against the storm raging inside. I should have been down there with her. Should have been the one pushing her harder, coaching her through every play, reminding her what she was capable of. Instead, I was just another spectator. A ghostin the stands, watching from the fucking sidelines while she shined.

The fire in her eyes—God, I knew that fire. I had spent months stoking it, testing it, watching it burn brighter every time I pushed her beyond her limits. But now, it wasn’t me she was proving herself to.

Each time she drove the puck up the ice, each time she battled for position and won, it felt like a hit to the gut. Because I knew her. I knew that fire wasn’t just for the game. It was for me.

This wasn’t just about hockey.

A sharp whistle cut through the air as the period ended, and the players skated toward the bench. My chest was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—pride, regret, longing.

I could get up. I could leave before she ever knew I was here. But I didn’t.

Because no matter how badly I had convinced myself she was better off without me, I still couldn’t look away.

Not from her.

Not from the girl who once looked at me like I was her whole world.

Not from the girl who had become mine.

I saw it the second she snapped.

The shift in her posture, the way her shoulders squared, the fire that flashed in her eyes like a warning before the explosion.

They had been chirping at her all game—cheap little jabs meant to get under her skin. It was typical shit, the kind you expect at this level. But then one of those Canadian players went too far.

“…got down on your knees for a creep like Callahan.”

I went still.

“He's a disgrace to the jersey… to the fucking game. Thank God he's not Canadian.”

The words landed like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs. My grip on the railing tightened so hard my knuckles cracked. The anger was instant, searing through my veins like wildfire. But before I could even process it—before I could even fucking blink—Iris was already dropping the gloves.

She launched at the girl who had spat my name like it was something filthy. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure, reckless fury.

The crowd roared as they crashed to the ice, skates scraping violently against the surface. Fists flew, gloved hands yanking at jerseys, bodies twisting in a tangled storm of aggression. Iris fought like she belonged there, like the fire inside her had been waiting for an excuse to burn everything in its path.

And fuck if it didn’t make my heart pound like a goddamn war drum.

I should have been worried. I should have been rational, thinking about what this would mean for her standing, her career, her place on that team. But none of that mattered in the moment. All I saw was her.

Fierce. Unrelenting.Mine.

My pulse roared in my ears as I watched her fight for me. Because that’s what this was. Not just a brawl for the sake of the game. This was a battle for something deeper, something personal. She wasn’t just defending herself—she was defending us.

By the time the refs finally pulled them apart, my chest was so tight I could barely breathe. Iris wiped at her split lip, barely even flinching as they dragged her to the penalty box.