Page 13

Iris

T he next morning, I stepped onto the ice, the cold biting at my cheeks, but that didn't matter. I had to be here. The throbbing in my foot reminded me of yesterday’s hit—the puck slamming against bone and leaving me with a swollen mess stuffed into my skate.

I’d wrapped it tight, but the pressure only heightened the pain.

With each push, I felt like I was dragging a weight behind me. My passes slipped wide, the puck not responding as it should have. I could hear Knox's voice echoing in my head, taunting me about wanting that jersey. The harder I tried, the more off-balance I became.

Get it together, Evans.

I gritted my teeth and focused on my edges, trying to carve deeper into the ice. It didn’t help. My blades skidded more than they sliced.

“Come on!” I shouted at myself, forcing out a breath as I pushed off again. My legs felt like lead, heavy and unyielding beneath me. Each misstep clawed at my insides like a slow bleed of failure.

I glanced over at Knox as he paced along the boards, his presence an electric pulse against my already frayed nerves. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched—like he could see every mistake before it happened.

“Evans!” His voice cut through the rink's echo.

The rest of the team shifted their attention toward me, some of them wearing expressions of concern mixed with pity. Great. Just what I needed.

“Focus up! You’re better than this!” Knox’s tone was sharp; it struck hard against the backdrop of my wavering confidence.

“Yeah? Easy for you to say,” I muttered under my breath while adjusting my grip on the stick.

Another pass went astray—this one clattering harmlessly off a teammate’s skate instead of gliding to her stick as intended. A wave of frustration washed over me; I stifled a groan that threatened to spill out.

I couldn’t let this be how they remembered me—not after everything I’d fought through to get here. The pain in my foot was just another hurdle to clear; it wouldn’t define me.

“Let’s go again,” I called out, though deep down, doubt wormed its way in like a shadow threatening to swallow light whole.

I took off again, pushing harder this time despite the burning protest from my foot—determined to prove that I belonged here no matter what bruises lingered beneath the surface.

I pushed through another lap, the chill of the ice biting at my legs, but all I could hear was Knox.

“Take the hit. Get back up.”

I thought about how he’d looked at me in the weight room, the possessive glint in his eyes. The hunger. The heat radiating from him had sent a jolt straight through me, igniting something I didn't want to acknowledge.

His chest had almost brushed against mine, that tantalizing proximity sending shockwaves through my core.

I hated it—hated that part of me wanted to lean into him, to feel more than just competition and pain.

His eyes burned into mine with an intensity that dared me to either push back or pull him closer.

I focused on pushing harder against the ice instead, willing my body to forget how good it felt when he challenged me. How alive it made me feel.

Another misstep sent me crashing into the boards with a thud that rattled my bones. Pain shot through my side, but instead of staying down, I sprang back up as if his words were embedded in my very soul.

“Come on!” I yelled at myself again, but it felt different this time—less like self-motivation and more like an echo of his demand. The ice became a battleground, and I refused to back down.

I reset my stance and faced off against Brooke once more. Her grin was teasing, her stance relaxed; she thought she had this in the bag. But beneath that surface lay a current of tension; I could feel it building between us as we skated closer together.

With every clash of sticks and shove against each other’s bodies, I fought not just for position but for something deeper—a desperate need to prove myself worthy against Knox’s challenge.

Why did he have to invade my head like this?

As Brooke knocked me off balance again, anger surged within me—a fire fueled by frustration and confusion. No way would I let Knox win.

Every time I collided with Brooke, anger flared in my chest—not just at her, but at myself. Knox was not supposed to matter. He was a washed-up player, a temporary coach who didn’t belong in my head. He was the problem, plain and simple.

Yet the way he commanded the rink felt like an electric charge igniting beneath my skin.

I couldn’t shake how it felt to battle against him—to be challenged and pushed to my limits.

It was intoxicating, that heat radiating from him whenever our eyes met, like he saw something in me that I barely recognized myself.

For those moments on the ice, I had felt like his equal—like I could match his intensity stride for stride. But alongside that thrill simmered an unsettling truth: it also made me feel like I belonged to him, as if every fierce exchange tied me closer to his will.

“I don’t want him,” I whispered under my breath, panting heavily as I took another crack at Brooke. “I want the jersey. That’s all I care about.”

Except it was a lie—one that curled tight around my gut and squeezed until I could barely breathe.

The adrenaline coursed through me, fueling every push and shove as I grappled for dominance over my opponent.

Yet every time Knox’s voice rang through the rink, calling me out or demanding more from me, it twisted something inside.

I charged at Brooke again, our sticks clashing in a rhythm of aggression that sent jolts of defiance through me.

But deep down, each hit resonated with the ghost of Knox's presence—his fierce gaze locked onto mine, igniting a fire I didn’t know how to control.

This isn’t what I wanted.

With every shove against Brooke’s body, my thoughts spiraled back to Knox: the way he made me feel alive even as it terrified me. The way he stirred something within—a darkness that whispered of craving more than just victory on the ice.

I pushed harder still, desperately trying to drown out those thoughts with movement—the sharp grind of blades against ice became my mantra for survival against all that chaos lurking beneath the surface.

The shrill blast of Coach Callahan's whistle sliced through the rink, pulling me back from my spiraling thoughts. I skidded to a stop, my breath heavy in my chest.

“All right, ladies! Great effort today!” he called out, his voice booming across the ice. “Remember what I said about pushing yourselves. You all want that jersey; don’t let up!”

I nodded absently, still trying to catch my breath as I skated off the ice. The adrenaline faded quickly, and with it came the familiar throb in my foot—each step a reminder of yesterday’s pain.

Chris Langley stood by the bench, his expression concerned as he watched me approach. “Hey, how’s the foot?” He stepped forward, hovering like he was ready to catch me if I stumbled.

“It’s fine,” I replied too quickly, forcing a smile that felt tight on my lips.

He frowned slightly but didn’t push. “You sure? You took a nasty hit during practice.” His voice softened; it was always gentle like that—steady and calm.

I shrugged, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Just a little sore.”

He glanced down at my foot, shifting closer. “You should probably ice it when you get home.”

“Yeah,” I said, already thinking about how it would feel when the cold pressed against the swelling. But before I could dismiss him further, Chris caught my eye again.

“Want to grab something to eat? Just to recharge after practice.” He offered it casually, but I could feel the weight behind his words—an invitation layered with something more.

I hesitated. Part of me craved the normalcy of hanging out with him—a friendly distraction from everything else that cluttered my mind. But another part of me recoiled at the thought of stepping into that familiarity while Knox lingered like a storm cloud just outside my thoughts.

“Sure,” I finally said, surprising myself with how easy it had been to agree. The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them.

Not because I wanted to be with him—God, no—but because I needed to remind myself that there were other options. Other paths that didn’t lead straight into the storm of Knox Callahan.

As I walked toward the bench, the adrenaline from practice faded, leaving behind a dull ache in my foot and an emptiness in my chest. Chris smiled at me, his eyes warm and inviting, like sunlight breaking through clouds on a gloomy day.

This should feel good.

But it didn’t.

I forced a smile back at him, trying to ignore how wrong it felt.

His laugh rang out like music as we walked together toward the locker room, lighthearted chatter bubbling between us.

I tried to focus on what he said about school and his summer plans—anything to distract from how much Knox had invaded my mind these past few days.

“Seriously,” Chris said, nudging me playfully. “You’re going to have to show me your secret moves on the ice if I’m ever going to keep up.”

I chuckled, but inside, my thoughts spiraled back to Knox’s piercing gaze and that thrill he stirred in me when we collided during practice. That electric connection felt dangerous—like a spark ready to ignite something wild and uncontrollable.

Chris leaned closer as we approached the hallway that led to the locker rooms, his expression earnest. “I know you’ve been pushing yourself hard lately. Just remember you don’t have to do it all alone.”

The warmth of his concern should have settled me down; instead, it twisted something deeper inside me—a reminder of how easy it would be to fall into that safe bubble with him.

Yet all I could think about was how desperately I wanted Knox's approval—even though he could destroy everything I worked for.

The moment hung between us like a fragile thread ready to snap under pressure.