Page 10

All business.

But we both knew better.

This was personal.

It always was.

“Ready?” Coach’s voice rang out.

Knox shifted into position—stick gripped tight, shoulders tense, body wound like a spring. Predator. Locked in. Waiting to strike.

I stepped into the line of fire—heart racing, every nerve screaming that this was a bad fucking idea.

But I wasn’t moving.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

The crack of his stick echoed like a gunshot.

The puck shot forward—fast, brutal, meant to break something.

Me.

I barely had time to breathe before it connected—right into my skate. Impact like fire—sharp, searing—vibrating up through my ankle, my knee, into my chest.

It took everything not to buckle. Everything not to fucking scream.

The sting was immediate, radiating heat and pain, but worse was the sound—the laughter.

Some girls chuckling, not cruel, but loud enough to sting.

Like I was just another rookie eating shit.

Some of the guys from the men's team standing outside the rink, waiting for their practice to start, laughed too.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. I wouldn’t give them that. I wouldn’t give him that.

I forced myself to straighten—to plant both skates firm even though my foot throbbed like hell beneath me. Face blank. Mask on. This is nothing. Even as tears fogged my vision. I would not cry.

But I felt him.

His eyes burned into me—watching. Assessing. That fucking smirk threatening to break across his face like he was proud of me for taking the hit. Or maybe just proud that he left a mark.

It twisted something in me—humiliation tangled with heat. Because I liked that he was looking.

I hated that I liked it.

I held his gaze for a second longer than I should have—daring him to see that I wasn’t breaking. Not today. Not because of him.

But I saw it. That flicker in his eyes. Respect? Or possession?

I didn’t know which was worse.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I skated back into line—foot screaming with every glide—but my face didn’t flinch.

I couldn’t let them see it.

I couldn’t let him see it.

But deep down, I knew.

He already had.

And he liked what he saw.

“Fuck, Knox, did you need to shoot it like you’re playing a league game?

Jesus.” I barely heard Callahan rip into him.

“Evans—off the ice. Get that checked.” His voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the haze of pain and adrenaline still buzzing in my veins.

Firm. Final. But there was concern laced beneath it.

That made it worse.

It stung.

I wanted to fight it—to stay, to push through, to prove I was tougher than this. But his eyes held me there—steady, knowing—like he was already making the decision for me.

Failure wrapped around me like a chokehold—tight and suffocating—sinking into my skin as I forced a nod.

I pushed off toward the bench—each stride sending spikes of pain through my ankle, radiating up my calf. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, grinding my teeth against the limp threatening to creep in. Pride held me up when my body wanted to buckle.

Don’t let them see.

Don’t let him see.

Especially not him.

But as I neared the bench, I saw them—the men’s team spilling out of the locker room, waiting for their practice. Loud. Easy. Full of energy. Like they belonged here more than I ever would.

“You good, Evans?”

I turned.

Chris Langley. Backup goalie. Nice. Safe. The kind of guy you’re supposed to want. The kind of guy your dad would like. Good looking in a boy-next-door kind of way. Easy. He made everyone comfortable.

He spotted me immediately—that easy grin fading into concern the second he saw the way I favored my foot.

Shit.

His voice was soft, genuine. But it grated against my nerves like sandpaper. And I didn't understand why.

I plastered on a smile—fake as hell but tight enough I hoped it passed. “I’m fine.” Too quick. Too defensive.

He knew it was a lie.

Chris stepped in closer—offering his arm like some white knight—steady, ready to carry me if I needed it.

A lifeline.

But it didn’t feel like saving.

It felt like surrender.

I froze—pride warring with the throbbing in my foot—before I gave in and took his support. Hating myself the second I did.

My body leaned into his warmth, but it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like him .

“Let’s get some ice on that," Chris asked. "You need tape? Got plenty in my bag.”

Helpful.

Sweet.

Every word poked at the raw wound in my pride—reminding me that I needed help. That I wasn’t untouchable. That I was breakable after all.

I wasn’t Knox. I wasn’t unshakable. I was just the girl limping off the ice, holding onto the backup goalie like a damsel in distress.

I lowered myself onto the bench outside the glass, forcing my breathing to even out as I propped my leg up on the wooden bench. I took my skate off, peeling down my sock, and pulling off my shinguard. The angry swell of my foot was already starting to show—red and tight around the bone.

Fuck.

Chris knelt in front of me, taping supplies already in hand, moving with a kind of easy confidence that made it clear he’d done this before. Backup goalie, sure—but he knew what he was doing.

I was supposed to be grateful. I was supposed to let this be enough. Focus on him.

Not Knox. Not the heat still crawling under your skin from his grip. Not the way he made you feel like you belonged to him—for those few seconds on the ice.

Chris’s hands were steady as he wrapped the tape around my foot, fingers brushing over my skin—light, careful. Gentle. The kind of touch that was supposed to feel good. Safe.

“This might feel a little tight,” he said, eyes flicking up to mine. His voice was warm, smooth—not like Knox’s rough scrape of gravel.

This was easy.

This was good.

I nodded, offering a tight smile, even though my chest still felt heavy.

This is what you’re supposed to want. A guy who looks at you like you’re worth protecting—not like you’re a fight waiting to happen.

But as he pressed the tape down, securing the wrap, his thumb sweeping over the top of my foot to smooth it out, all I felt was…

Nothing.

I forced a small laugh when he made a joke about goalies having more tape than talent, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was easy—like he wanted to put me at ease. Like he was trying.

And I smiled—because I was supposed to. Because it was the right response. Because he was being good to me, and I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t appreciate that.

But under the surface, I was still burning. Because it wasn’t his voice I wanted low in my ear. It wasn’t his hands I wanted pressing into me—demanding, rough, sure.

And that made me hate myself just a little.

Chris finished securing the last strip of tape around my foot, his thumb brushing lightly over the arch as he pressed it into place. Careful. Patient. Like he actually cared. “There. Should hold you together,” he said, giving a small grin—the kind meant to put me at ease.

I smiled back—but as much as I wanted it to feel like enough; it didn’t stop the dull ache low in my stomach—the kind that had nothing to do with my foot.

“Stay here. I’ll grab you some ice,” Chris said, standing up.

I nodded, exhaling slowly as he jogged toward the cooler tucked in the corner of the rink, the buzz of the men’s team’s practice filling the background.

I was supposed to be focusing on him. This was the part where I let him fix things—be the good guy, take some of the weight off.

Be normal.

Be easy.

I rolled my ankle carefully, testing the wrap. It was tight but secure, and the pain had dulled to a steady throb.

Chris returned a moment later, a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

He crouched down beside me again, holding it out.

I reached for it, fingers brushing his—warm, steady.

A little charge of contact—but not the kind that made my chest squeeze or my pulse kick up.

Not the kind that left me breathless and angry. Not the kind I craved.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, trying to make my voice sound softer, more like I appreciated it.

I did.

Chris stayed there, close but not too close. Watching me like he wanted to say more—but he didn’t. He was giving me space. Respecting boundaries. Being perfect.

And yet…

I couldn’t help it.

My gaze drifted. Through the glass—toward the ice—toward him . Standing near the boards, stick in hand, mask of indifference on his face—except his eyes.

His eyes were locked on me. Sharp. Dark. Fucking furious.

Our eyes collided, and for a second, my breath caught in my throat—because that wasn’t just irritation. That was possession. That was a warning.

His jaw flexed, hands tightening around his stick like he wanted to break it in half. Like he wanted to break Chris.

I snapped my gaze away—heat rushing to my cheeks—heart racing in a way it hadn’t when Chris touched me.

I adjusted the ice on my foot, pretending like I hadn’t seen him, like it didn’t matter. Like Knox Callahan didn’t already have his fucking hooks in me.

But I felt him watching. Even from across the rink,

I felt him everywhere.

And I hated that I liked it. That I liked him like this. Jealous. Angry. Dangerous.

Was he jealous?

Did he care?

Or was he just upset someone was being nice to me?

Fuck, I didn't care.

I needed to stop thinking about him… before it ruined me.