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Don’t let him win.

Don’t let him see you break.

I threw myself into the puck battle again—shoulder down, body tense—but it wasn’t hockey anymore. It was war. It was meproving I was stronger than him—stronger than this pull he had over me.

We collided—Brooke and I—hips, elbows, steel blades cutting lines into the ice. The impact exploded through my shoulder, sending us both sprawling—arms tangled, breath ragged, gear scraping across the rink.

Laughter broke out from the other girls, sharp and grating in my ears, but it didn’t touch me. Because all I could feel was heat. Humiliation twisting in my chest like a knife.

And him.

Always him.

Knox stood off to the side—leaning on his stick, casual as hell—but his eyes were locked on me. Watching every move. Every mistake. His face was unreadable, but I saw it—that flicker beneath the surface. Satisfaction. Like this is exactly what he wanted. Like this was what he came here for. To see me sweat. To see me stumble. To see how far I’d go before I snapped.

I scrambled to my feet—fast—because I refused to look weak. Even though my chest was tight, and my heart was doing that fucked-up thing where it raced not from fear, but from want.

And I hated him for it.

I hated him for making me want him.

For making me want to fight him and kiss him in the same breath.

I shot him a glare meant to cut him in half. But he didn’t flinch. He never did. He just looked at me like he was already under my skin—like he knew I wouldn’t get him out. Like he liked it there.

“Let’s see some real fight, Evans,” he said, voice low and cool—like he knew exactly what I had left in me. Like he wanted to see it all.

Something cracked wide open in my chest. A frayed thread snapping under pressure. I didn’t think. Didn’t care. I justpushed off on my skates and charged back into the drill—faster, harder, reckless—because the only way to drown him out was to fight.

And maybe…

Maybe I didn’t want to drown him out at all. Maybe I wanted him to push me to the edge and see if I could survive it. If I could survive him.

Because deep down, I already knew?—

I was his match.

And he was mine.

Even if it killed me.

The air cracked around us—sharp, electric, like a storm about to break. Brooke and I squared off, sticks slashing, skates cutting lines into the ice like we were carving out a battlefield. This wasn’t hockey anymore. This was a war.

Laughter from the others blurred into nothing—just background noise, distant and useless—because the only thing I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.Fight. Hit back. Take what’s yours.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Brooke spat, eyes locked on mine, chin tipped up like she was daring me to swing.

My grip tightened around my stick until my knuckles screamed. I was shaking—but not from fear. From want. From heat. From the ache to go further.

“You want to find out?” The words snapped out of me, sharp as a blade.

Our gloves twitched—instinct—like we both knew what came next. Fists or sticks, it didn’t matter. We were ready to drop both.

Everything narrowed—just her and me—fury colliding with adrenaline, my chest heaving, heart racing like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, toes curling over. Ready to jump. Ready to fall.

Someone shouted from the boards—maybe Jenna, maybe Lila—but I didn’t hear what they said. Didn’t care.

My pulse was louder.