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The anger twisted deep, curling in my gut like a fist, sharp and relentless.

And then I saw it—Chris leaning in too close. Acting like he had the right to be in her space. Laughing at something she said, making her eyes light up in a way that made my skin crawl.

That should be mine.

The possessiveness surged up so violently I had to grind my teeth to keep from reacting. My fists curled at my sides, the tendons straining, my knuckles aching. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something darker, something primal.

Something dangerous.

I shoved off the boards, my boots hitting the floor hard. My body moved before my mind caught up. Each step was heavy, weighted with something I wasn’t ready to name.

What did she see when she turned her head?

Did she see the anger?

The possession?

Did she feel the heat rolling off me, thick as smoke, as I closed the distance?

I fucking hoped she did.

Because deep down—she knew.

She didn’t belong with him.

She didn’t belong in the safe little world she was trying to escape to.

Not when she had already crossed lines with me—lines we weren’t coming back from.

And sure as hell not when she was mine.

I stormed into my temporary office, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls fucking shook.

I paced like a caged animal, my body coiled so tight I thought I might snap. Each step felt heavier, each breath too sharp. I needed to shake her off—needed to get her out of my head before she consumed me whole.

But Iris fucking Evans was already under my skin, digging in deep like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Her foot—wrapped up tight, looking so fucking small. I should’ve been thinking about how reckless she was, how she needed to stop overtraining, but instead—all I could think about was how much I wanted to touch her. To run my hands over the bruise. To cradle her ankle and make sure she was okay.

And then—her lips.

Those damn lips.

The way she licked them after we fought, how her breath caught when we stood chest to chest, neither of us moving, the air between us a live fucking wire.

She hadn’t pulled away.

She’d let me get close.

And it was wrecking me.

With a sharp growl, I slammed my fist into the desk; the impact rattling the surface—papers scattering, a coffee cup toppling onto the floor. Pain shot up my arm, but it didn’t do shit to ease the fire already raging inside me.

I stepped back, running a hand through my hair, my breath still coming too fast.

What the hell was wrong with me?

This was supposed to be about coaching. About pushing her until she either cracked or proved me wrong.