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I pushed harder this time, determined to prove I wasn’t just another player he could easily dismiss. But as I stumbled back from our collision, he skated away from me with a slight chuckle before turning and barreling back toward me again.

He crashed into me—harder this time—sending me reeling. I fought to keep my balance but felt his hand at my hip, anchoring me for a moment longer than necessary. My breath hitched as I stumbled back, feeling the heat of his palm through my gear.

Our eyes locked.

Heat coursed through my veins, a fierce pulse that drowned out everything else in the rink. The challenge hung between us like a thread pulled taut.

“You call that a hit?” he taunted, leaning closer. The proximity sent an unexpected thrill through me.

But it wasn’t fear driving my heart rate; it was something more primal—a mix of exhilaration and defiance swirling within me.

“Maybe you should show me how it’s done,” I shot back, letting irritation seep into my voice. It came out sharper than intended, but I wanted him to see that I wouldn’t back down. Not now.

Knox’s eyes darkened with something unnameable—a glimmer of possession laced in with challenge. He took a half-step closer, and for an instant, everything around us faded away. The sounds of the rink dimmed; it was just us—two competitors caught in a charged standoff.

In that moment, I felt alive—fighting not just for the jersey but for every ounce of respect I craved from him and myself alike.

I pushed back against the boards, still feeling the sting from Knox’s last hit.

The ice beneath me was cold and unyielding, but the heat radiating off Knox made it impossible to ignore him.

I had been so focused on proving myself that I hadn’t noticed how tightly wound he was, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

Then he came at me again, pushing me hard into the boards. My breath caught in my throat as I collided with the unforgiving surface. I fought to regain my balance, feeling the sharp edge of his shoulder against my own.

“Harder,” he said, his voice low and intense.

I shot him a glare, but before I could respond, I spotted Chris entering the rink for the men’s practice. He waved casually in my direction, a friendly smile spreading across his face.

Knox stepped in front of me like a wall. His presence loomed large, shadowing everything else around us.

“Focus on your recovery, Evans,” he said, voice cold and laced with something simmering just beneath the surface. “You don’t need distractions.”

The words cut through the air like a knife.

It wasn’t loud enough to be a shout, but everyone heard it—my teammates glanced over in surprise as if they sensed the shift in atmosphere.

Chris’s smile faltered as he registered what had just happened; even through the glass, I could see his brow furrow with confusion.

A knot formed in my stomach. The intensity of Knox's gaze turned icy; it felt possessive and controlling. Was this about protecting me or something else? It didn’t matter—I could feel all eyes on us now.

I swallowed hard and squared my shoulders.

Knox was crossing a line that shouldn’t have existed between us—one that seemed to deepen every time we clashed on or off the ice.

I felt heat rush to my cheeks as his words hung in the air, thick with tension. I didn’t want to show it, but embarrassment clawed at me. Everyone was watching—my teammates, Chris. The eyes of the rink felt like a spotlight burning into my skin.

But beneath that embarrassment? There was a sick, twisted thrill swirling in my stomach.

He cared. Knox Callahan cared enough to throw down the gauntlet when he saw me smile at Chris. A small part of me wanted to bask in that feeling, to revel in the notion that he wasn’t indifferent. That he was here, protective and fierce.

He wasn’t just a coach; he was invested.

And as I met his intense gaze, something ignited within me—a spark of defiance and excitement. I wanted him to care like this. I wanted him to want me close enough to challenge anyone who tried to step between us.

In that moment, it clicked: Knox Callahan was mine. Not just a fleeting thought or an obsession—he belonged to me as much as I belonged on this ice.

I pushed away from the boards and stood tall, refusing to let embarrassment swallow me whole. I squared my shoulders and glared back at Knox, matching his intensity with my own stubborn resolve.

“Maybe I need distractions,” I shot back, my voice steadier than I felt. “What’s it to you?”

His expression shifted slightly, surprise flickering across his features before settling back into that cool facade he wore so well. But there was something else lurking behind his eyes—a flicker of approval? Or perhaps a hint of challenge?

Knox stepped closer again, invading my space just enough for our shoulders to brush together briefly. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me; it ignited every nerve ending in my body.

“Don’t make it easy for them,” he murmured low enough that only I could hear.

Every muscle in my body tightened at his words—the raw intensity wrapped around us both like a cocoon, isolating us from everything else happening on the ice.

“Trust me,” I replied, holding his gaze fiercely as if daring him to look away first.

I could feel the weight of his stare deepen between us—he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. This wasn’t just about hockey anymore; it was about everything else we hadn’t yet named or confronted.

And for the first time since this all began, I found myself craving more than just respect or approval from him—I wanted the fire igniting between us too.

I sat in the empty locker room; the door closing behind me with a soft thud as my teammates left.

The familiar scent of sweat and equipment hung in the air, grounding me as I began to change out of my practice gear.

I moved slowly, my foot throbbed a little from the puck that had struck it earlier, but the pain was bearable.

Still, it was hard to focus on anything but him.

Knox.

His touch lingered on my skin, electric and searing.

The way his body pressed against mine during that drill sent heat coursing through me.

I could still feel the warmth of his hand at my hip—just a second too long for a coach.

His eyes had burned into mine, filled with an intensity that made my heart race.

It terrified me how much I craved that fire.

I tugged at the laces of my skates, forcing myself to concentrate on something other than his gaze—the way he looked at me like he wanted to tear me apart and then put me back together again.

There was a rawness in him that felt almost primal, a challenge I didn’t know if I wanted to accept or run from.

I hated how much I loved it.

With each passing moment in the locker room, my thoughts spiraled deeper into chaos.

This wasn’t Chris; this was something entirely different.

Chris was kind—gentle in ways that soothed the jagged edges of my life.

He made me feel safe like I could breathe easy without fear of being crushed under expectations or judgment.

But Knox?

Knox was chaos wrapped in allure. He thrived on intensity and danger, igniting something inside me that felt both exhilarating and reckless. Part of me longed for that fire—to burn brightly in his presence despite knowing it could consume everything around us.

As I peeled off my sweaty jersey, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—a girl standing at the edge of two worlds. One held comfort and stability; the other beckoned with thrilling unpredictability. It left me breathless as I struggled to reconcile those feelings within myself.

I pulled on a fresh shirt, trying to ignore how alive he made me feel—or rather how alive I felt when he was near. And yet…there was no denying it; part of me wanted to burn alongside him.

My phone buzzed on the bench, jolting me from my spiraling thoughts. I glanced down to see Chris’s name lighting up the screen.

You okay? I get the feeling your coach doesn’t like me.

I stared at the message, my heart twisting. Did Knox dislike Chris? Or was it something deeper, something darker? I couldn’t pin it down, and that uncertainty gnawed at me.

I didn’t reply right away. I sat there, fingers hovering over the keyboard as confusion washed over me. Because I wasn’t okay—not really. Knox was in my head like a persistent echo, his presence looming larger than life.

His eyes, fierce and challenging; his body, warm against mine during drills—it all stirred something inside me that left no room for comfort or clarity.

Chris’s kindness felt safe, but it paled in comparison to the raw energy Knox unleashed every time he walked into the rink.

He’s just intense. Don’t worry about it.

I finally typed back, trying to mask the turmoil within me with a facade of nonchalance. The moment I hit send, I felt a pang of guilt twist my stomach. Why did I need to defend Knox? Why did I care how Chris perceived him?

A moment later, Chris responded.

I’m sure I could take him down in five seconds flat!

The lighthearted message made me smile—a real smile this time—one that chased away some of the weight pressing on my chest.

But it wasn’t enough; it didn’t reach the core of what had been stirred up during practice today.

It wasn’t the same smile Knox had ripped out of me when he pushed too hard, challenging every ounce of my will and resolve. That smile held danger and thrill—a reminder of what I craved yet feared all at once.

I took a deep breath and set my phone aside, knowing full well that I was teetering between two worlds—one safe and predictable with Chris, and another wild and reckless with Knox lingering just beneath the surface.

I finished changing and grabbed my bag, the weight of it pulling at my shoulder.

I stepped into the hallway, the echo of my skates fading behind me as I made my way outside.

The warmth of the late afternoon air hit me, sharp and invigorating, but it couldn’t mask the dull ache throbbing in my chest.

Every step toward my car felt like a reminder—an incessant pulse that mocked me with its intensity. I had been telling myself this was all about hockey, about earning that jersey, but the truth wrapped around me tighter than any bandage could manage.

Knox Callahan was everywhere.

His voice rang in my ears from practice: “Harder, Evans.” The way he pushed me—no, challenged me—felt like fire licking at my resolve. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. And now, as I walked through the parking lot, I couldn’t escape his shadow.

I reached my car and fumbled for my keys, still replaying moments from practice in my head—the way his body had pressed against mine during drills, how he’d stared at me with that intense gaze as if he wanted to peel back every layer and expose what lay beneath.

I shook my head as if trying to dislodge those thoughts. This wasn’t about Knox; it couldn’t be. Yet every time I convinced myself I was focused on hockey, there he was again—smirking or watching from across the rink like he owned every inch of space around him.

I leaned against my car, taking a moment to breathe deeply.

Get it together, I told myself.

But deep down, I knew it was too late for that.

The fire Knox ignited in me burned brighter than any goal or jersey ever could.

And no matter how hard I tried to outrun him—his presence haunted every step I took away from the rink.