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Coach Callahan’s whistle cut through the rink like a gunshot—sharp, final—splitting the air and slicing straight through me. His voice followed, clipped and cold, each word a punch to the ribs, as his eyes found mine.

Not Brooke's.

Mine.

“We don’t lose control like that. You’re better than this.”

Better than this.

The disappointment hit harder than any check ever had. It wasn’t anger—it was worse. It was that low, steady tone. The voice he used when I’d let him down.

Heat flooded my face, crawling up my throat like fire, choking me. Humiliation blistered under my skin, spreading fast—faster than the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Faster than the ache in my foot.

I felt them. All of them. Teammates watching. Judging. Their eyes like knives—digging in, stripping me bare.

I gripped my stick so tight my fingers went numb, but it didn’t ground me. Nothing could. Because this wasn’t just a screw-up. This was failure.

I wasn’t just a player. I was his player. Callahan’s girl. The one with the future—the one he was betting everything on.

And I’d just shown them all I could crack. That I wasn’t perfect. That maybe I didn’t deserve that jersey.

Better than this.

Better than you, Iris.

But maybe you’re not.

The shame boiled into anger—hot, bitter—spiking in my chest like broken glass.

My gaze snapped to Knox. Because this was his fucking fault. The taunts. The pressure. The way he dragged me into this mess—made me reckless—made me want to prove something I shouldn’t have to.

He did it on purpose.

He wanted to ruin me.

But the second our eyes met—everything shifted.

I could still feel him.

The heat of his grip sinking into my skin, spreading out like a goddamn infection. Like my body was holding onto the memory, refusing to let it fade.

My pulse kicked up—but not from embarrassment now. From him. He was watching me—jaw tight, expression serious—but his eyes were darker. There was something behind them. Not just authority. Not just irritation.

Understanding.

Recognition.

Want.

Like he saw me losing it, and instead of pulling me away from the edge, he was right there with me—wanting to see if I’d jump. Or maybe wanting to jump with me.

I didn’t know which one I wanted more.

Time stretched—the sounds of the rink blurring, the eyes of my teammates fading—until it was just us. Me and him. Breathing hard. Hearts racing. Fingers still tingling from contact. A line drawn between us—thin as a thread, sharp as a blade—tugging me toward something dangerous. Something I should walk away from. Something I knew I wouldn’t.

Because the truth was sinking in, settling into my bones—scaring the shit out of me. Knox Callahan wasn’t just getting under my skin. He was already there. And I liked it. Even if it ruined me.

“All right, listen up!” Coach Callahan’s voice cracked through the rink, cutting through the chatter and the sharp scrape of blades on ice.