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Lie.

A fucking lie.

I could see it flicker across her features, the battle between reason and whatever this was. And deep inside me, something dark curled in satisfaction.

She could fight it all she wanted. She could deny it.

But we were already past the point of no return.

And God help me—I wasn’t about to stop now.

I should have backed off.

I should have stepped away, let her breathe, let the tension settle before it swallowed us both whole.

But that wasn’t what I did.

Instead, I leaned in closer, my breath warm against her ear, my voice dropping low—gravelly, rough. “So what’s it gonna be, Evans?”

She shivered. Barely there. But I fucking felt it.

“You gonna play it safe? Or are you gonna fucking win?”

The air between us tightened, electric, charged like the moments before a fight broke out on the ice.

Her chest rose and fell too fast beneath the fabric of her jersey, and I watched—waited.

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away either.

And that? That was a win.

A rush flooded through me—like I had just landed a perfect hit, like the buzzer had just sounded in overtime and I knew we had taken the game. This moment was mine.

Her hesitation hung thick between us, an invisible battle I could feel in the heat radiating off her skin.

I stepped in just enough to let the weight of my presence settle over her. “You’ve got fire.” My voice was quiet, taunting. Dangerous. “But you’ve got to learn how to use it.”

Her jaw tightened like she was forcing down whatever the hell was clawing its way up her throat. I saw it—that fight she was trying so hard to bury.

I wanted to see it break free.

I wanted to see her burn.

I wanted her to fight me.

Because fighting me meant she couldn’t ignore this.

She couldn’t ignoreme.

I tipped my head just enough for our eyes to meet again—dark, locked in a silent standoff, neither of us willing to move first.

I breathed in the sharp scent of sweat and ice, hearing the thrum of her pulse, fast and erratic, like she had already lost the battle she wouldn’t admit she was fighting.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked, my voice nothing more than a murmur—a challenge, a dare, a goddamn line drawn in the ice.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then—she swallowed, steadied herself. “Nothing,” she shot back, but her voice betrayed her.