Page 19 of Shots & Echoes (The Crestwood Elite Hockey Academy #12)

Knox

T he rink was silent before dawn, the only sound the sharp slice of my skates cutting through the ice.

I hadn’t slept.

Not a fucking wink.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.

Langley’s stupid fucking grin flashing in my mind like a taunt, that easy, bullshit smile lingering like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise.

And her.

Laughing. At him.

Like he fucking mattered.

The anger curled through me, hot and suffocating.

I slammed a puck into the net, the crack of my stick against the ice echoing through the empty rink. The shot ricocheted off the back bar and came flying toward me, but I barely felt it. Didn’t fucking care.

I grabbed another puck and fired again. Harder.

Still not enough.

The morning cold bit at my skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat coiling deep in my gut, burning hotter every time I thought about Iris smiling at him.

She shouldn’t be smiling at him like that. Like he was worth her time. Like he was worth her.

Each slap of my stick against the ice fueled something darker. Something I didn’t want to name.

I gritted my teeth and pushed harder, faster, trying to drown it out with sheer force, with the familiar rhythm of drills that used to keep my head clear.

Control.

This was about control.

About focus.

She needed focus—she needed to keep her goddamn head in the game if she wanted that jersey.

But I knew better.

This wasn’t about hockey anymore.

This was about owning her.

Claiming her.

And I’d been lying to myself for too long now.

The rink brightened with early morning light, casting long shadows across the ice as I drifted into another drill. Pacing like a caged fucking animal.

My breath came heavy, frustration thick in the air.

I took another shot—wide.

Another. Missed.

Another. Still not fucking good enough.

“Damn it.”

The curse ripped from my throat as I raked a hand through my damp hair, my pulse hammering, my body thrumming with unchecked adrenaline.

This was supposed to help.

But nothing helped.

Because all I could see was her.

Iris Evans, standing across from me on the ice, fire in her eyes, defiance in her stance.

The way she had collided with me, the raw tension between us snapping like a live wire. That split second when she didn’t pull away—when she let herself get too close, let me see that flicker of something real.

Something dangerous.

Something mine.

And then—Langley.

That motherfucker was still there. Still standing in my way.

A reminder that I’d waited too long.

That someone else was already trying to take what belonged to me.

I sucked in a sharp breath and slammed another puck toward the net. It hit the crossbar and flew into the glass with a sickening crack.

I didn’t care.

I swung again. Harder.

Again.

Again.

The rage still wouldn’t leave.

Because no matter how many times I tried to shoot it out of me, no matter how hard I skated, how much I fought to bury it deep?—

I couldn’t change one simple, infuriating truth.

She was still out there.

And she was still fucking smiling at someone else.

The sound of the doors swinging open ripped me from my thoughts.

I turned, muscles still tight, pulse still fucking thrumming, as the rest of the team filtered onto the ice. Laughter. Chatter. The easy camaraderie of teammates who weren’t battling their own demons every goddamn second.

Good.

Practice was about to start.

I forced my jaw to unclench as I scanned the group. Waiting. Watching.

Then—there she was.

Iris.

She stepped out of the locker room hallway last, head high, shoulders back—like she didn’t have a single goddamn clue how badly I wanted to rip that confidence right out of her. Like she wasn’t the reason I’d spent the entire night awake, simmering in frustration.

She moved effortlessly, every step fluid, powerful.

Fucking lethal.

She moved toward the group, eyes focused ahead, and for a moment—I couldn’t fucking breathe. She wasn’t just good. She was something else entirely.

Every time she stepped onto this ice, it felt like a challenge. She wasn’t just fighting for a spot on Team USA?—

She was pushing against me.

Testing me.

Challenging me.

The other players settled in, throwing playful jabs, knocking sticks, the usual pre-practice routine.

And then—Langley.

Chris fucking Langley.

Too close.

Too damn comfortable at her side as she made her way toward the group.

Her gaze flicked toward mine—quick, unreadable.

Then back to him.

And she smiled.

My grip tightened around my stick, the wood groaning under the pressure.

A slow, seething heat burned through me, curling hot and violent in my gut. She was doing this on purpose. Fucking testing me.

This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. This was about ownership. About control. About making her want me more than anyone else—more than him.

If she wanted to play this game, fine.

If she thought she could push me, tease me, make me fucking burn?—

She had no clue what she was inviting in.

I pushed off hard, cutting across the ice with purpose, my body wired with determination, frustration—something darker.

Today would be different.

Today, I’d make sure she knew exactly who held the reins.

My whistle cut through the noise like a goddamn blade.

“All right, listen up!” My voice boomed, bouncing off the walls of the rink. Sharp. Commanding. Unapologetic.

Every player snapped to attention.

Good.

They should be nervous.

Today wasn’t about drills. It wasn’t about routines, about easy strides and soft plays.

Today was about pushing limits. Testing them. Breaking them. Making them hurt. Making her hurt.

I scanned the team, but my focus zeroed in on one person.

Iris.

She stood at the edge, chin lifted, brows furrowed, her mouth pressed into that stubborn little line that made something dark curl inside me.

Perfect.

I nodded toward her. “Evans.”

Her head snapped up. I caught the flicker of surprise before she smothered it with confidence.

“You ready to take it up a notch?”

A beat.

Then—that smirk. That sharp, defiant gleam in her eyes.

“Always.”

My own smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, but it wasn’t amusement. It was a challenge.

She had no fucking clue what she’d just signed up for.

“Good.” I dragged the word out, rolling my shoulders as I let the tension settle, build, suffocate. “First drill—puck battles along the boards. Full-contact, just like before. No holding back. I want to see who actually wants this jersey.”

A murmur rippled through the team—some excited, some wary.

They should be.

This was where you found out who the fuck you were.

I watched as they paired off; the energy shifting. The air vibrated with anticipation, with something heavier, something brutal.

I paced along the boards, eyes cutting across each pair, watching the first collisions slam into the glass. Bodies crashed. Sticks clashed. The ice shuddered beneath their skates.

“Harder!” I barked. “Fight for it!”

Then I found her again.

Locked against Brooke—a scrappy, tough-as-nails player who didn’t give an inch.

I wanted to see her bleed for it.

I wanted to see if she’d crawl her way through hell and back to prove herself.

Brooke shoved her hard, body weight slamming into her like a wrecking ball. Iris hit the boards, sharp and sudden, but she didn’t flinch.

She held her ground.

Something ignited inside me.

Not pride.

Not respect.

Something worse.

Something possessive. Dark. Ugly.

Something that wanted to rip her apart just to see if she’d put herself back together for me.

“Come on, Evans!” My voice lashed across the rink. “Show me you fucking want it!”

Brooke came at her again, but this time, Iris fought back.

She twisted, used her weight, shoved hard—and Brooke stumbled.

Yes.

Fucking yes.

I took a step closer, my blood roaring through my veins. I wanted more. More fight. More fire. More of her.

I watched as Iris battled Brooke, their bodies crashing against the boards, their sticks clashing like goddamn weapons.

The rest of the team saw a drill. I saw a fight.

And she still wasn’t digging deep enough.

She fought like hell, sure. But I wanted more.

I stepped closer, pacing like a predator, watching her every move.

Brooke drove into her, pinning her against the boards with a force that echoed through the rink.

But Iris didn’t crumble.

She pressed back. Hard. Shoving off the boards, she countered—aggressive, unrelenting, perfect.

Brooke stumbled. That fire in Iris’s eyes—sharp and wild—hit me like a gut punch.

It should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

She could give me more.

I moved in before I could stop myself.

The second she faltered— just a fucking second —I slammed into her, body-checking her into the boards.

Hard.

Not enough to hurt her. Just enough to make her feel it.

She bounced off, breathless, wide-eyed.

Half fury.

Half something else.

Fuck.

That look on her face— rage and challenge twisted into one perfect storm —hit me in a way I wasn’t ready for.

She was right there.

In my space. In my fucking head.

Mine.

“What the hell, Callahan?” she snapped, her breath coming hard, chest rising and falling too fast.

I stepped in closer—crowding her, pushing the moment, testing her limits.

Our chests almost touched, heat rolling off her like fire licking at my skin.

I felt her pulse in the air between us.

“Want this jersey, Evans?” My voice dropped, low and dark. Dangerous. “Then fucking fight for it.”

But we both knew I wasn’t just talking about hockey anymore.

The air snapped tight.

Iris’ gaze flickered—anger warring with something she didn’t want to name.

Then she shoved me.

Hard.

Enough to create space. Enough to make my blood fucking burn.

“I’m not scared of you,” she shot back, voice sharp, unyielding.

A slow smirk curled at my lips.

Good.

Because I didn’t want her scared.

I wanted her obsessed.

And judging by the way she was looking at me?

She already was.

Practice wrapped up, but Iris stayed.

Of course she did.