Page 17

Iris

L unch with Chris was fine. Just fine.

He animatedly talked about his time as a goalie, how he couldn't wait to play next year. His enthusiasm shone through, and I should have felt uplifted by his passion for the game.

But honestly?

I was miles away, my thoughts tangled in something darker.

My foot throbbed from where the puck had hit it, but that wasn’t what gnawed at me. It was the way Knox had looked at me when I walked out with Chris. His gaze pierced through the rink like a blade, heavy and charged with something primal. It sent an unsettling thrill down my spine.

I tried to shake it off, to focus on Chris and his stories about saves and strategy. He leaned in, eyes bright, gesturing wildly as he recounted a close call during practice last week.

“...and I dove just in time! You should have seen it; the puck barely skimmed past me! There's no way I'm still backup this year. Not with the way I catch everything.” He laughed, and I forced a smile, nodding along while my mind replayed Knox’s expression over and over.

Like he was ready to break something. Like he was ready to break someone.

I took a sip of my drink, trying to drown out that dark image creeping into my thoughts.

"Are you even listening?" Chris's voice broke through my haze, pulling me back to the table.

“Yeah—sorry! Just thinking about practice,” I replied quickly. My heart raced; guilt flickered within me. Wasn’t I supposed to be focusing on Chris? He was safe, predictable—everything Knox wasn’t.

But it was futile. The more I pushed Knox from my mind, the more vivid his presence became. Every brush of his fingers against my wrist in the weight room felt fresh, every moment we’d shared echoing in my head like a refrain I couldn’t escape.

Chris’s laughter faded into background noise as I stared down at my half-eaten sandwich, suddenly nauseous with confusion and unwanted longing.

He glanced at me quizzically, concern etching his brow. “Iris? You good?”

“Yeah,” I said too quickly. “Just tired.”

I caught myself looking toward the door again, waiting for Knox to stride in like he owned the place—but no one came through that entrance except more teammates chatting and laughing together.

I rolled out of bed the next morning, stretching my arms above my head.

The ache in my foot had faded to a dull throb, and I felt lighter.

I shuffled to the bathroom, letting the hot water from the shower wash over me, soothing my muscles and clearing the remnants of yesterday’s confusion from my mind.

Standing there, I let my thoughts drift while steam fogged up the mirror. Images of Knox surfaced uninvited—his intense gaze, that smirk that held more than just arrogance. I pushed them aside as I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, reminding myself today was a new day.

After I dried off and got dressed, I made my way to the kitchen. The smell of coffee greeted me, rich and inviting. My dad sat at the table, flipping through the morning paper with his usual calmness.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said without looking up. “How’s the foot?”

“Better,” I replied, pouring myself a cup of coffee and sliding into a chair across from him.

He looked up then, his brow furrowing slightly. “Good to hear. You know you can’t push it too hard during practice.”

“I know.” I rolled my eyes but smiled at him. “I’m not planning on sitting out.”

“Just don’t go giving your coach a reason to get mad at you,” he joked, trying to keep his tone light.

A wave of heat crept up my neck. He meant Callahan. I knew that. But I couldn't help but think of Knox. “Yeah, well...he’s just doing his job.”

Dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further.

I took a sip of coffee, savoring its warmth as silence settled between us.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the table. Chris’s name lit up on the screen:

How's your foot? Hope you're feeling better!

I texted back quickly:

Feeling good! Thanks for checking.

But as soon as I hit send, an emptiness crept in around me—a hollow ache that gnawed at something deep inside. He was nice. He was sweet. But somehow…he wasn’t enough.

“Everything all right?” Dad asked, eyeing me closely.

“Yeah,” I lied, forcing a smile even though it felt brittle against my skin. I stood up. "I should head to practice. Love you." I bent down to kiss his cheek.

"Love you too," he said.

As I stepped into the rink, the familiar chill wrapped around me, but it felt different today. The air buzzed with an electric tension, thick enough to cut through. I glanced around, scanning the empty ice and the dimly lit stands, but it was Knox who drew my focus.

He stood at the edge of the rink, stick in hand, muscles coiled like a spring. His back was straight, shoulders squared. There was an intensity in his posture that made my pulse quicken. It wasn't just his usual intensity—it was colder. Sharper.

I ignored it.

I headed to the locker room and quickly changed. After making sure my foot was wrapped, I slid on my skates, making sure to tie them extra tight. I took my time, taping my stick before grabbing my gloves and heading onto the rink.

I could feel his gaze boring into me as I skated toward him, every stroke sending a shiver up my spine. He wasn’t taunting or mocking; there was no smirk on his face today. Instead, he seemed locked in a battle with himself—something just beneath the surface simmered and churned.

My heart raced as I approached him. The weight of his stare pinned me down, leaving me vulnerable under his scrutiny. I focused on my breathing, trying to shake off the sensation that coiled tight in my chest.

“Evans,” he said finally, voice low and steady.

“Callahan."

He nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead, he watched me closely as if assessing something deeper than just my skills on the ice. It made me self-conscious, like every move was under a microscope.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said after a moment, voice flat but with an edge that hinted at something more intense behind it.

I felt my cheeks heat under his gaze—an odd mix of thrill and apprehension coursed through me as I nodded back. This wasn’t about proving anything anymore; it felt like we were entering uncharted territory where hockey collided with something far more dangerous.

As practice began and other players filtered onto the ice, I couldn’t shake Knox’s presence from my mind or the feeling that today would be different—he would push harder than before. The tension between us hung thick in the air like a promise waiting to unfold.

The ice glistened beneath the harsh fluorescent lights as Coach Callahan stepped onto the rink, his presence instantly commanding attention. I could feel the shift in energy as everyone turned to him, anticipation buzzing through the air like static.

“All right, team!” he called out, voice booming. “Today we’re focusing on puck battles along the boards. It’s a critical part of the game, and you all know how important it is to hold your ground.”

I shifted on my skates, trying to appear nonchalant while my heart raced. I caught a glimpse of Knox leaning against the boards, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on me like I was the only one that mattered.

“Pair up,” Coach continued. “We’ll work in groups of two. I want intensity. No backing down—show me you want that jersey.”

Every eye fell on me as I moved to find a partner. My skin prickled under Knox’s watchful gaze; it felt like he was memorizing every inch of me. It wasn’t just practice anymore; it was a performance, and he was ready for the show.

“Evans! You’re with Brooke!” Coach called out, breaking my concentration.

Brooke skated over with a fierce grin that told me she was ready to go hard. We set up at one end of the rink, sticks ready for battle.

“Remember,” Knox's voice cut through from across the ice, sharp and clear, “It’s not just about getting the puck; it’s about owning your space.”

My pulse quickened as I caught his eye for a moment before looking away. The weight of his gaze felt heavy on my back as we began our drill.

Brooke charged at me with surprising speed, and I braced myself against her force. Every move had to be precise; every shove counted. With each clash of sticks and shuffling feet, I sensed Knox's eyes following me like a hawk waiting for its prey.

“Good! That’s it!” Coach encouraged from the sidelines while moving down the rink to observe us closely.

In those moments between plays, when Brooke and I paused to reset, I could feel Knox measuring our efforts—calculating weaknesses and strengths. His focus made my stomach twist with nerves and excitement.

Without warning, Knox came to a stop just a few feet away, assessing the drill with that penetrating gaze of his. I felt the familiar knot in my stomach tighten as he focused on me.

“Evans,” he said, voice steady but laced with an edge. “You’re doing it wrong.”

My heart raced at the thought of being critiqued in front of Brooke, but there was no time to dwell on it. Knox stepped onto the ice, effortlessly slicing through the space between us and Brooke.

“Watch,” he commanded.

He positioned himself behind me, closer than I’d expected.

The warmth radiating from his body sent an unexpected jolt through me.

Knox demonstrated the correct technique—body low, knees bent—as he shoved his shoulder against mine.

It felt different from any other hit I'd taken; this was purposeful and intimate.

“Now you try,” he instructed, stepping back but still close enough for me to feel his presence looming over me.

“Show me,” he said, that smirk teasing the corners of his mouth.

I braced myself and charged at Knox, feeling the ice beneath my skates slip just a little as I leaned into him. My shoulder connected with his, but it was like crashing against a brick wall. He barely budged, that same cool confidence radiating off him.