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He was stronger.

More experienced.

And he was enjoying this.

I grit my teeth, shoved back harder, using every ounce of power in my legs. “Stop holding back.”

His breath hitched, then—just for a second. Like he hadn’t expected me to say that. Then that fucking smirk again. “Oh, sweetheart… I’m not even trying.”

My body was on fire—adrenaline, rage, and something else I didn’t want to name.

I was losing the battle.

But I wasn’t done.

He hit me like a fucking freight train.

My shoulder slammed into the boards with a brutal thud, my teeth snapping together as the cold plexiglass bit into my back. His body pinned me there—solid, unyielding—stick grinding against mine like a dare. The breath rushed out of me, but I held my ground, chest heaving against the weight of him.

Too close. Too fucking close.

Heat radiated off him—the kind that belonged in a bar fight, not a rink. His mouth was next to my ear, voice low and rough, for me alone. “Let’s see if Daddy’s favorite can take a real hit.”

Adrenaline spiked—sharp and hot—raging against the humiliation curling in my chest. I shoved back, hard, using every ounce of muscle I had.

He didn’t move.

Barely even shifted.

Just that fucking smirk.

Like he was letting me exhaust myself for his own entertainment.

I hated him.

I hated the way he was stronger than me.

I hated that he wanted me to know it.

And I hated that my skin was burning beneath my jersey because of him.

His hips pressed in harder—enough to make me stumble, just slightly.

“Come on, Evans,” he murmured, his breath hot against the back of my neck. His stick tapped against mine, deliberate, like he was playing with his food. “Is that all you’ve got?”

That snapped something inside me.

I twisted my stick against his, fighting dirty, trying to wedge the blade under his grip. My muscles burned, every nerve strung tight, but I didn’t care.

I was getting that puck.

This wasn’t about drills anymore.

This was about survival.

I lunged, blade scraping ice, trying to twist free—but he read me like a book, shifting his weight just enough to trap me against the boards again.

The wall of him—hard, hot, unforgiving—pressed into my back as he angled his stick, stealing the puck with that maddening ease.