Page 11 of Shots & Echoes (The Crestwood Elite Hockey Academy #12)

Knox

I stood at the edge of the rink, jaw locked so tight my teeth ached, watching Iris limp off like she wasn’t in pain. Like she hadn’t just taken a slapshot to the fucking skate because she was too stubborn to move.

And then there was him.

Chris fucking Langley. Right there, waiting, like he’d been counting down the seconds to play hero.

His arm slid around her shoulders like he had the right, and something inside me snapped. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms, tension coiling tight in my gut like a wire about to snap. What the fuck was he doing?

She didn’t need him.

She didn’t need anyone.

But then she laughed—soft, breathy, light —and that’s when the rage hit full force.

That laugh? That should’ve been mine to pull from her lips. Mine to provoke. Not his.

Chris leaned in, murmuring something that made her smile, and I had the sudden, violent urge to rip his hand off her. The way he touched her—casual, easy, like she belonged there against him—made my blood run hot, but not in the way I wanted.

She’s tough. She doesn’t need saving.

I whispered it under my breath like a mantra, but I didn’t believe it. Not when Chris was the one holding her up, when she was leaning into him instead of pushing back like she always did with me.

And I fucking hated it.

The sharp clang of blades against the ice, the distant shouts of her teammates, all of it blurred into the background as they disappeared behind the locker room doors. That moment replayed over and over—her wincing, Chris catching her, her letting him.

My pulse pounded.

I should be the one testing her limits. The one pushing her past the pain, past the hesitation. Not him.

Because Chris? He’d be too easy on her. Too fucking soft. He wouldn’t push her to the edge like I would.

Wouldn’t make her fight.

And that fire in her? The one I saw in every glare, every defiant shove against the boards, every time she refused to back down?

That fire belonged to me.

I prowled across the empty rink, my skates biting into the ice with every turn. The sound echoed in the hollow arena, sharp and rhythmic, but it did nothing to drown out the fucking image burned into my head.

Iris.

Iris, leaning into Chris Langley. Iris, laughing for him.

Chris fucking Langley.

The safe choice. The guy who’d never shove her into the boards or make her bleed to prove a point. The guy who’d never tell her she wasn’t good enough just to watch her prove him wrong.

And she let him touch her. Let him slip his arm around her like he had a fucking right. Like she needed him. Like that was something she’d allow.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t push him off.

She didn’t push back.

A muscle ticked in my jaw as I pushed harder, ice cutting beneath me in angry streaks. What the fuck was wrong with me? It wasn’t like she was mine. Wasn’t like I had any reason to care who helped her limp off the ice.

But I did.

And it burned.

I gritted my teeth, trying to shake it off. It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one helping her up—or better yet, I should’ve been the one making sure she never fucking fell in the first place.

Chris wouldn’t push her the way I did. Wouldn’t test her. Wouldn’t make her better.

He’d be gentle.

Soft.

And maybe that’s what she wanted.

I clenched my fists around my stick, my pulse pounding in my ears. She didn’t need soft. She needed to be challenged. To be fought for.

And if she thought Chris Langley could give her that, then she didn’t fucking know me at all.

I stalked across the ice, every step weighted with the image of her limping off, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched like she’d rather die than admit she was in pain. The way she flinched when that puck slammed into her foot—it kept looping in my head, relentless and sharp.

I’d seen players take worse. Hell, I’d taken worse. But this? This was Iris.

And I wasn’t supposed to care.

This was just a job. A temporary stint. Serve my time, keep my head down, don’t get attached. I’d taken this gig to escape the bullshit—the headlines, the fights, the bad fucking choices that landed me here in the first place.

Yet here I was. Wound up over a goddamn sophomore with too much fire in her veins.

I told myself to walk away. Let it go.

I wouldn’t push her. Wouldn’t go looking for her after practice. Wouldn’t give a single shit what she did or who she did it with.

But then an hour passed.

And I fucking cracked.

I stormed out of the rink, ignoring the way my gut twisted, ignoring the warning bells screaming in my head. The night air slapped against my skin, sharp and biting, but it did nothing to cool the heat buzzing under my skin. This wasn’t adrenaline from practice. This was something darker.

What if she was still there?

What if Chris fucking Langley had stayed behind, playing the golden boy, giving her that easy, safe, nice guy bullshit? What if she let him?

The thought rotted in my chest, something primal and ugly rising to the surface. I’d shove him against the wall if I had to. Remind him exactly who the fuck he was dealing with.

But this wasn’t about him.

This was about her.

And maybe that was even worse.

I reached the rink doors, my pulse a heavy drum in my ears. Turn around. Leave. Don’t do this.

I didn’t listen.

I pushed through, breath sharp, heart hammering, tension snapping like a live wire beneath my skin. Because maybe she needed me more than anyone else did. And maybe that scared the hell out of me too.

I stormed into the weight room, every muscle coiled tight, tension crawling up my spine like barbed wire.

It was the only thing keeping me from going over to her place and asking her what the fuck she was doing.

The clang of metal, the scent of sweat—it should’ve grounded me.

Should’ve drowned out the noise in my head.

But nothing shut this shit off tonight.

I grabbed a barbell, loaded it heavier than I should’ve, and dropped it against my shoulders like a fucking punishment. My arms burned, my chest strained, but the pain was good. It kept me focused. It kept me from thinking about her.

The way she limped off the ice.

The way she let Chris Langley put his hands on her.

The way she laughed at something he said—light, easy, like she hadn’t just been in the dirt.

I gritted my teeth, pushing the weight higher, harder, but the image wouldn’t leave my head. It should’ve been me.

I dropped the bar with a sharp clatter, rolling out my shoulders, forcing a breath into my lungs. Sweat dripped down my spine, heart still hammering from the last set. The weight room was nearly empty, just the hum of machines and the occasional clank of metal against the racks.

But then—through the mirror’s reflection—I saw her.

Iris.

She was across the gym, alone, pounding the treadmill like she had something to prove. Jaw tight. Eyes locked forward. Like she was outrunning a fucking ghost.

Her ponytail clung to the sweat at the back of her neck, her Crestwood hoodie bunched at her elbows, her breathing sharp and controlled.

But her legs? She was pushing them past the point of reason.

Each stride was harder than the last, her body screaming at her to stop, but she didn’t. She kept going.

It didn't seem to matter that she had taken a puck to the foot earlier. She kept fucking going. Too hard. Too fast.

I knew that pace. That wasn’t training. That was punishment.

My grip tightened around the barbell, something dark curling in my gut. What the hell was she doing? She had already skated hard today, already taken that slapshot to the foot. She should be off her feet, icing it, recovering.

But instead, she was here, running herself into the ground like it would fix whatever the fuck was clawing at her insides.

The frustration I’d been trying to sweat out surged right back.

I should’ve walked away. Let her do whatever the hell she wanted. It wasn’t my job to care.

But I did.

And that pissed me off more than anything.

I grabbed my towel, wiped the sweat from my face, and started toward her before I could talk myself out of it.

If she wanted to push herself until she broke—I was going to be there to watch it happen.

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her punish herself on the treadmill.

Every stride hit like a fucking declaration—like she was trying to outrun something she didn’t want to face.

Her hoodie clung to her, damp with sweat, her breathing sharp and uneven.

But it wasn’t exhaustion in her expression. It was desperation.

A pulse of frustration shot through me. What the hell was she doing? She should’ve been off her feet, icing that injury, not grinding herself into the ground like this would prove something.

Finally, she noticed me.

Her pace slowed, her fingers tightening on the treadmill rails as she tried to catch her breath.

“What?” she snapped, voice sharp, defensive. Like she was already bracing for a fight.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

Her glare burned into me as she wiped sweat from her forehead, but beneath that fire was something else—a flicker of something raw she didn’t want me to see.

“Didn’t take you for the type to overtrain.”

She sneered. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

But it was my business. And we both fucking knew it.

She shifted on the treadmill, weight rolling to one side, refusing to back down. That defiance—it was like a goddamn drug. It made me want to push her harder, to break through whatever walls she kept slamming up between us.

I pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, my strides slow, deliberate. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But I saw it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled into fists.

“You’re not fine,” I said, voice low but certain. “You just took a puck to the foot. You should be resting.”

Her jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “And who made you the expert on what I should do? You don’t know anything about me.”