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Because I had.

I was losing to her, and she didn’t even know it.

I dragged my palms down my face, sweat slicking my skin—but it didn’t wash any of it away. She was still there.

Iris Evans—with her clean fucking ponytail and perfect fucking game—was haunting me.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want her out.

I wanted her pinned to the glass again, breathless, begging to keep up.

I wanted to see how far she’d go—how much she could take.

I wanted to see if she’d crawl back after.

Bruised, but still mine.

I pushed myself up from the bench, every muscle screaming—but not louder than the noise in my head.

I needed to work harder. Needed to hurt. Because I knew what this was becoming. And I didn’t want to stop it. I didn’t want to stop wanting her.

I gripped the bar again, breath sharp.

Let’s see what you can fucking take, Evans.

I stood in my small,temporary kitchen—shirtless, cold, and half-feral.

The night air leaked through the cracked window, biting at my skin, but I didn’t close it. I liked the sting.

Needed it.

A few empty beer bottles littered the counter—my only fucking teammates now.

I cracked open another, the hiss loud in the silence, the glass cool against my bruised knuckles.

They ached—dull and steady—from gripping my stick too hard during drills.

But I liked that, too.

Pain was better than feeling nothing.

And lately, nothing was all I had.

Except now?

Now there was her.

I took a swig of beer, the burn sliding down my throat, but it didn’t drown her out.

Eyes like fire.

Mouth sharp with defiance.

Body tight against mine—small, but unyielding—like she was daring me to crush her.

And fuck, I wanted to.