Page 48 of Shots & Echoes

“Let’s go again,” I called out, though deep down, doubt wormed its way in like a shadow threatening to swallow light whole.

I took off again, pushing harder this time despite the burning protest from my foot—determined to prove that I belonged here no matter what bruises lingered beneath the surface.

I pushed through another lap, the chill of the ice biting at my legs, but all I could hear was Knox.

“Take the hit. Get back up.”

I thought about how he’d looked at me in the weight room, the possessive glint in his eyes. The hunger. The heat radiating from him had sent a jolt straight through me, igniting something I didn't want to acknowledge.

His chest had almost brushed against mine, that tantalizing proximity sending shockwaves through my core. I hated it—hated that part of me wanted to lean into him, to feel more than just competition and pain. His eyes burned into mine with an intensity that dared me to either push back or pull him closer.

I focused on pushing harder against the ice instead, willing my body to forget how good it felt when he challenged me. How alive it made me feel.

Another misstep sent me crashing into the boards with a thud that rattled my bones. Pain shot through my side, but instead of staying down, I sprang back up as if his words were embedded in my very soul.

“Come on!” I yelled at myself again, but it felt different this time—less like self-motivation and more like an echo of his demand. The ice became a battleground, and I refused to back down.

I reset my stance and faced off against Brooke once more. Her grin was teasing, her stance relaxed; she thought she had this in the bag. But beneath that surface lay a current of tension; I could feel it building between us as we skated closer together.

With every clash of sticks and shove against each other’s bodies, I fought not just for position but for something deeper—a desperate need to prove myself worthy against Knox’s challenge.

Why did he have to invade my head like this?

As Brooke knocked me off balance again, anger surged within me—a fire fueled by frustration and confusion.No way would I let Knox win.

Every time I collided with Brooke, anger flared in my chest—not just at her, but at myself. Knox was not supposed to matter. He was a washed-up player, a temporary coach who didn’t belong in my head. He was the problem, plain and simple.

Yet the way he commanded the rink felt like an electric charge igniting beneath my skin. I couldn’t shake how it felt to battle against him—to be challenged and pushed to my limits. It was intoxicating, that heat radiating from him whenever our eyes met, like he saw something in me that I barely recognized myself.

For those moments on the ice, I had felt like his equal—like I could match his intensity stride for stride. But alongside that thrill simmered an unsettling truth: it also made me feel like I belonged to him, as if every fierce exchange tied me closer to his will.

“I don’t want him,” I whispered under my breath, panting heavily as I took another crack at Brooke. “I want the jersey. That’s all I care about.”

Except it was a lie—one that curled tight around my gut and squeezed until I could barely breathe. The adrenaline coursed through me, fueling every push and shove as I grappled for dominance over my opponent. Yet every time Knox’s voice rang through the rink, calling me out or demanding more from me, it twisted something inside.

I charged at Brooke again, our sticks clashing in a rhythm of aggression that sent jolts of defiance through me.

But deep down, each hit resonated with the ghost of Knox's presence—his fierce gaze locked onto mine, igniting a fire I didn’t know how to control.

This isn’t what I wanted.

With every shove against Brooke’s body, my thoughts spiraled back to Knox: the way he made me feel alive even as it terrified me. The way he stirred something within—a darkness that whispered of craving more than just victory on the ice.

I pushed harder still, desperately trying to drown out those thoughts with movement—the sharp grind of blades against icebecame my mantra for survival against all that chaos lurking beneath the surface.

The shrill blast of Coach Callahan's whistle sliced through the rink, pulling me back from my spiraling thoughts. I skidded to a stop, my breath heavy in my chest.

“All right, ladies! Great effort today!” he called out, his voice booming across the ice. “Remember what I said about pushing yourselves. You all want that jersey; don’t let up!”

I nodded absently, still trying to catch my breath as I skated off the ice. The adrenaline faded quickly, and with it came the familiar throb in my foot—each step a reminder of yesterday’s pain.

Chris Langley stood by the bench, his expression concerned as he watched me approach. “Hey, how’s the foot?” He stepped forward, hovering like he was ready to catch me if I stumbled.

“It’s fine,” I replied too quickly, forcing a smile that felt tight on my lips.

He frowned slightly but didn’t push. “You sure? You took a nasty hit during practice.” His voice softened; it was always gentle like that—steady and calm.

I shrugged, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Just a little sore.”