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After I dried off and got dressed, I made my way to the kitchen. The smell of coffee greeted me, rich and inviting. My dad sat at the table, flipping through the morning paper with his usual calmness.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said without looking up. “How’s the foot?”

“Better,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of coffee and sliding into a chair across from him.

He looked up then, his brow furrowing slightly. “Good to hear. You know you can’t push it too hard during practice.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes but smiled at him. “I’m not planning on sitting out.”

“Just don’t go giving your coach a reason to get mad at you,” he joked, trying to keep his tone light.

A wave of heat crept up my neck. He meant Callahan. I knew that. But I couldn't help but think of Knox. “Yeah, well...he’s just doing his job.”

Dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further.

I took a sip of coffee, savoring its warmth as silence settled between us.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the table. Chris’s name lit up on the screen:

How's your foot? Hope you're feeling better!

I texted back quickly:

Feeling good! Thanks for checking.

But as soon as I hit send, an emptiness crept in around me—a hollow ache that gnawed at something deep inside. He was nice. He was sweet. But somehow…he wasn’t enough.

“Everything all right?” Dad asked, eyeing me closely.

“Yeah,” I lied, forcing a smile even though it felt brittle against my skin. I stood up. "I should head to practice. Love you." I bent down to kiss his cheek.

"Love you too," he said.

As I steppedinto the rink, the familiar chill wrapped around me, but it felt different today. The air buzzed with an electric tension, thick enough to cut through. I glanced around, scanning the empty ice and the dimly lit stands, but it was Knox who drew my focus.

He stood at the edge of the rink, stick in hand, muscles coiled like a spring. His back was straight, shoulders squared. There was an intensity in his posture that made my pulse quicken. It wasn't just his usual intensity—it was colder. Sharper.

I ignored it.

I headed to the locker room and quickly changed. After making sure my foot was wrapped, I slid on my skates, making sure to tie them extra tight. I took my time, taping my stick before grabbing my gloves and heading onto the rink.

I could feel his gaze boring into me as I skated toward him, every stroke sending a shiver up my spine. He wasn’t taunting or mocking; there was no smirk on his face today. Instead, heseemed locked in a battle with himself—something just beneath the surface simmered and churned.

My heart raced as I approached him. The weight of his stare pinned me down, leaving me vulnerable under his scrutiny. I focused on my breathing, trying to shake off the sensation that coiled tight in my chest.

“Evans,” he said finally, voice low and steady.

“Callahan."

He nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead, he watched me closely as if assessing something deeper than just my skills on the ice. It made me self-conscious, like every move was under a microscope.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said after a moment, voice flat but with an edge that hinted at something more intense behind it.

I felt my cheeks heat under his gaze—an odd mix of thrill and apprehension coursed through me as I nodded back. This wasn’t about proving anything anymore; it felt like we were entering uncharted territory where hockey collided with something far more dangerous.

As practice began and other players filtered onto the ice, I couldn’t shake Knox’s presence from my mind or the feeling that today would be different—he would push harder than before. The tension between us hung thick in the air like a promise waiting to unfold.

The ice glistened beneath the harsh fluorescent lights as Coach Callahan stepped onto the rink, his presence instantly commanding attention. I could feel the shift in energy as everyone turned to him, anticipation buzzing through the air like static.