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She skated near me again, and my gaze locked onto hers—sharp, hungry, unyielding. This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. It was about testing limits, about seeing which one of us would crack first.

Then she took a hit—hard, unexpected. Another player knocked her off balance, and she went down, landing hard against the ice. Something in my chest went tight.

Before I even thought about it, I took a step forward.

“Get up,” I commanded, voice low but cutting.

Her eyes snapped up to mine, and for a second, neither of us moved.

I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve let her shake it off like she always did.

But I didn’t.

I stayed close, watching the way her chest rose and fell beneath her jersey, the flush of exertion across her skin, the stubborn set of her mouth as she refused to stay down.

“Don’t back down,” I murmured, something raw scraping at the edges of my voice.

She pushed herself to her feet, shoulders tense, jaw tight, but her breathing was uneven now. So was mine.

And for a moment—one dangerous, fleeting moment—I swore she felt it too.

The way this thing between us pulsed, alive and hungry.

We were playing with fire. Dancing along the edge of something neither of us could control.

And fuck if I didn’t want to see just how far we could fall.

I watched Iris move through the drills like she had something to prove. Every stride, every pivot, every shove against her teammates sent a jolt through my veins. She skated hard, shoulders squared, fire in her eyes. Good. That fire kept me locked onto her, unwilling to look away.

But it wasn’t enough.

I needed to see more. Needed to see her break past that thin veneer of control and into something raw.

So I called for full contact.

Again.

Or maybe I wanted an excuse to touch her in front of an audience.

“Let’s see what you’re made of!” I barked across the ice, my voice cutting through the steady rhythm of blades scraping against the rink.

The girls braced themselves. Tension crackled in the air.

They went at it—fighting for the puck, bodies colliding against the boards, breath heavy in the cold air. But my focus was locked onto her. Always her. And when she hesitated for a fraction of a second, I pounced.

“Evans!” My voice rang across the rink like a gunshot. “Get your head in the game! You want that jersey? Then show me you deserve it!”

The shift was instant. The other girls felt it. Their skates slowed, their gazes flickering between me and her. The command in my voice wasn’t just about coaching—it was about claiming.

She knew it, too.

Her glare snapped to mine, bright and furious, but underneath it, I saw something else. A flicker of recognition. Of understanding.

She squared her shoulders, grip tightening around her stick, and dove back into the drill with vengeance. She battled harder, slammed into the girl beside her, took a hit but came out stronger. When she came away with the puck—when she skated off victorious—I smirked.

“Good,” I muttered under my breath.

But this wasn’t just about hockey.