Page 42 of Shots & Echoes

I dropped the bar with a sharp clatter, rolling out my shoulders, forcing a breath into my lungs. Sweat dripped down my spine, heart still hammering from the last set. The weight room was nearly empty, just the hum of machines and the occasional clank of metal against the racks.

But then—through the mirror’s reflection—I saw her.

Iris.

She was across the gym, alone, pounding the treadmill like she had something to prove. Jaw tight. Eyes locked forward. Like she was outrunning a fucking ghost.

Her ponytail clung to the sweat at the back of her neck, her Crestwood hoodie bunched at her elbows, her breathing sharp and controlled. But her legs? She was pushing them past the point of reason. Each stride was harder than the last, her body screaming at her to stop, but she didn’t. She kept going.

It didn't seem to matter that she had taken a puck to the foot earlier. She kept fucking going. Too hard. Too fast.

I knew that pace. That wasn’t training. That was punishment.

My grip tightened around the barbell, something dark curling in my gut. What the hell was she doing? She had already skated hard today, already taken that slapshot to the foot. She should be off her feet, icing it, recovering.

But instead, she was here, running herself into the ground like it would fix whatever the fuck was clawing at her insides.

The frustration I’d been trying to sweat out surged right back.

I should’ve walked away. Let her do whatever the hell she wanted. It wasn’t my job to care.

But I did.

And that pissed me off more than anything.

I grabbed my towel, wiped the sweat from my face, and started toward her before I could talk myself out of it.

If she wanted to push herself until she broke—I was going to be there to watch it happen.

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her punish herself on the treadmill. Every stride hit like a fucking declaration—like she was trying to outrun something she didn’t want to face. Her hoodie clung to her, damp with sweat, her breathing sharp and uneven. But it wasn’t exhaustion in her expression. It was desperation.

A pulse of frustration shot through me. What the hell was she doing? She should’ve been off her feet, icing that injury, not grinding herself into the ground like this would prove something.

Finally, she noticed me.

Her pace slowed, her fingers tightening on the treadmill rails as she tried to catch her breath.

“What?” she snapped, voice sharp, defensive. Like she was already bracing for a fight.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

Her glare burned into me as she wiped sweat from her forehead, but beneath that fire was something else—a flicker of something raw she didn’t want me to see.

“Didn’t take you for the type to overtrain.”

She sneered. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

But itwasmy business. And we both fucking knew it.

She shifted on the treadmill, weight rolling to one side, refusing to back down. That defiance—it was like a goddamn drug. It made me want to push her harder, to break through whatever walls she kept slamming up between us.

I pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, my strides slow, deliberate. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But I saw it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled into fists.

“You’re not fine,” I said, voice low but certain. “You just took a puck to the foot. You should be resting.”

Her jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “And who made you the expert on what I should do? You don’t know anything about me.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, stepping in even closer. She smelled like sweat and effort and something that got under my fucking skin.