Page 15

Knox

I stood in the rink, jaw locked, watching Chris fucking Langley walk away with Iris. The tightness in my chest spread like a slow, suffocating burn, coiling around my ribs and squeezing until I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe.

And then—she smiled at him.

Laughed, light and easy, like he was someone worth her time. Like he was worth her.

Something inside me twisted so hard it was painful.

That smile was mine .

I shoved my hands into my pockets, fingers twitching with the need to do something—grab her, pull her back, erase the fact that she’d ever looked at him like that.

The ache in my fists wasn’t from the gym, wasn’t from any fight I’d had before.

It was from this. From knowing she was with someone else.

Someone who made her laugh.

Someone who made her feel safe.

Someone who wouldn’t fucking ruin her career.

Good for her , I told myself. Smart choice.

But the words felt like acid on my tongue.

Chris Langley had always played it safe. A nice guy. A team player. The kind of guy fathers didn’t mind their daughters bringing home. He was everything I wasn’t—clean, easy, predictable. A safe bet.

And I hated him for it.

I exhaled slowly, fighting to keep my expression blank, fighting the urge to move. But then I saw it—the way his hand brushed her arm. Just a fleeting touch, but long enough to make sure I saw it.

The knot in my gut wrenched tighter.

He could have her. Could be what she needed. Could fit into her neat little world without leaving bruises behind.

And me?

I was all sharp edges and wreckage.

This was supposed to be temporary—a job, a distraction. A way to prove I could do something right for once without dragging someone else down with me.

But Iris Evans had fucked that up. She’d slipped under my skin, twisting things around until I felt raw and exposed, like she’d reached into my chest and left her mark on the inside of my ribs.

She deserved better.

Better than me.

Better than a guy whose name was still synonymous with disgrace.

But even as that thought ran through my head, another voice whispered louder.

I want to break that perfect little world of hers.

The intensity of it startled me. Possessive. Obsessive. Too much like something dark creeping in where logic used to live.

Because it wasn’t just about wanting her. It was about wanting to see her burn for me.

And that realization? That was fucking dangerous.

I leaned against the boards, grinding my teeth, breathing slow through my nose as I watched Chris lead her away.

And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to hit something just to feel the pain.

That smile on her face—light, easy, like nothing had happened between us.

Like she hadn’t stood in front of me just yesterday, her wrist in my grip, her breath hitching, her body burning with the same tension that had been choking the air between us.

She wanted me then. I know she did.

And now?

Now she was pretending. Pretending she hadn’t felt it. Pretending she wasn’t fucking running from it.

The anger twisted deep, curling in my gut like a fist, sharp and relentless.

And then I saw it—Chris leaning in too close. Acting like he had the right to be in her space. Laughing at something she said, making her eyes light up in a way that made my skin crawl.

That should be mine.

The possessiveness surged up so violently I had to grind my teeth to keep from reacting. My fists curled at my sides, the tendons straining, my knuckles aching. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something darker, something primal.

Something dangerous.

I shoved off the boards, my boots hitting the floor hard. My body moved before my mind caught up. Each step was heavy, weighted with something I wasn’t ready to name.

What did she see when she turned her head?

Did she see the anger?

The possession?

Did she feel the heat rolling off me, thick as smoke, as I closed the distance?

I fucking hoped she did.

Because deep down—she knew.

She didn’t belong with him.

She didn’t belong in the safe little world she was trying to escape to.

Not when she had already crossed lines with me—lines we weren’t coming back from.

And sure as hell not when she was mine.

I stormed into my temporary office, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls fucking shook.

I paced like a caged animal, my body coiled so tight I thought I might snap. Each step felt heavier, each breath too sharp. I needed to shake her off—needed to get her out of my head before she consumed me whole.

But Iris fucking Evans was already under my skin, digging in deep like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Her foot—wrapped up tight, looking so fucking small. I should’ve been thinking about how reckless she was, how she needed to stop overtraining, but instead—all I could think about was how much I wanted to touch her. To run my hands over the bruise. To cradle her ankle and make sure she was okay.

And then—her lips.

Those damn lips.

The way she licked them after we fought, how her breath caught when we stood chest to chest, neither of us moving, the air between us a live fucking wire.

She hadn’t pulled away.

She’d let me get close.

And it was wrecking me.

With a sharp growl, I slammed my fist into the desk; the impact rattling the surface—papers scattering, a coffee cup toppling onto the floor. Pain shot up my arm, but it didn’t do shit to ease the fire already raging inside me.

I stepped back, running a hand through my hair, my breath still coming too fast.

What the hell was wrong with me?

This was supposed to be about coaching. About pushing her until she either cracked or proved me wrong.

Instead, all I could think about was pushing her against the wall. Seeing just how much she could take.

She had that spark—that raw, untamed defiance—and I wanted to watch it flicker and burn. Wanted to see her come apart beneath the weight of all that fucking want.

But that scared the hell out of me, too.

Because she belonged on the ice. Focused. Fierce. Untouchable. Not tangled up in this mess, in me.

And yet—every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her.

Flushed from exertion.

Flushed from anger.

Flushed from something deeper than either of us wanted to admit.

And God help me—I wanted to be the one to shatter that perfect armor she wore.

I couldn’t keep doing this.

This would ruin everything I’d fought for.

Yet here I was, pacing like a fucking idiot, with Iris Evans wrapped around my goddamn mind like a noose.

I paced the office, each step heavier than the last, my jaw clenched so tight I could feel the pressure in my skull.

This was about protecting her.

That was the excuse I clung to, the one I kept feeding myself like a fucking lie I hoped would eventually settle.

She needed to focus. To stay locked in on the game. Not get caught up in whatever bullshit Langley was selling her.

He’s a distraction.

I repeated the words in my head, tried to let them bury the other thoughts clawing at me, but they didn’t take. Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about hockey, either.

And deep down, I knew it.

That truth gnawed at me like an unhealed wound, festering beneath the surface. She was already playing hurt. Her foot still swollen, her body still bruised from taking my slapshot like a goddamn warrior. And here she was—giving her smile, her attention, her fucking laugh to someone else.

A guy who didn’t have a clue what she’d sacrificed to get here.

Didn’t deserve to know.

The thought of it made something inside me snap. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms, a slow, controlled burn turning into a wildfire. That laugh should’ve been mine. That easy fucking grin—mine.

Not his.

Not some safe, nice guy who wouldn’t push her the way she needed.

Who wouldn’t push her the way I did.

I exhaled hard, raking a hand through my hair, fighting the way my pulse spiked just thinking about it.

She needed to focus, that should’ve been enough to make me let this go—to step back and let her have her space.

But it wasn’t.

Because it was never just about protecting her. It never had been.

I stayed late, lifting until my muscles screamed, punishing myself with every rep. Metal clashed against metal, the sharp clang echoing through the empty gym, but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

I wanted to sweat her out. Burn her out of my system.

But no matter how hard I pushed, Iris Evans clung to me like a second skin.

And then I saw them through the gym window.

Chris Langley. Iris. Together.

I went still.

They walked across the parking lot, too damn close. Her laugh rang out, soft and easy, cutting through the darkness like a blade straight to my gut.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder; her smile bright, unguarded—too fucking easy. Like she was floating. Like she wasn’t wrapped up in the same fucking storm I was.

A slow, dark heat curled through my chest, tightening like a noose. They didn’t even see me. Didn’t notice me standing there in the gym, fists clenched, watching every single goddamn move through the fucking window.

And then—Chris leaned in. Said something.

And she laughed again.

That did it.

The snap was instant. A fuse burning straight to an explosion.

Before I even realized it, I was moving. Dropped the weight. Left. Marching toward them, each step heavier than the last.

The moment Chris touched her shoulder, that easy, familiar bullshit gesture—like he had a right to be there, a right to her—heat roared through my veins, violent and absolute.

She left before I got there.

Probably a good thing.

But him?

Him, I still needed to deal with.

“Langley.”

My voice cut through the night like a goddamn knife.

Chris turned, his expression shifting—surprise first, then something careful. Guarded. Like he could already feel the tension rolling off me in waves.

He should.

He fucking should.

“Hey, Coach,” he said, casual, too casual. But I caught it—that flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Good.