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But it was his eyes that caught me off guard. Sharp, calculating, they flicked over the rink like he was assessing prey rather than teammates. Dangerous in a way that went beyond fists; I sensed an intensity in his gaze that made me shiver.

My stomach twisted at the sight of him. Disdain bubbled up like hot oil as I crossed my arms tighter against my chest, unwilling to let him see how much he affected me.

This was Knox Callahan—the guy who had thrown it all away for a moment of madness.

I shouldn’t have felt anything but contempt for him.

But curiosity nagged at me beneath the disdain.

We all watched him grow up on highlight reels, saw his talent before it spiraled into chaos.

He had been great once—skating like the wind and scoring goals like it was second nature.

Every kid in our town dreamed of being him before violence swallowed him whole.

I wondered if anyone else felt the tension crackling in the air like static electricity.

A knot twisted tighter in my stomach as I fought to maintain my focus while battling against feelings I didn't want to acknowledge. My teammates murmured amongst themselves, exchanging wary glances; even they couldn’t deny what we all knew—this guy had been exceptional before everything fell apart.

Knox leaned against the boards, legs spread wide, stick resting across his thighs like a weapon he wasn’t sure if he felt like using today.

He looked like he owned the place.

Like nothing here could touch him.

The other girls were stealing glances, whispering, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.

He had that look guys like him always had—the kind that said he’d been the best in every room he’d ever walked into until he wasn’t.

But then, his eyes found mine—sharp, blue, cutting straight through me.

I felt it like a hit to the chest.

Heat surged into my cheeks—anger first, but something else, too.

Something worse.

Did he know who I was?

Or was he just looking for the easiest one to break?

Coach clapped his hands, dragging me back into the present.

“All right, everyone! Pairs for contact drills. Puck battles along the boards!”

The tension in the rink shifted—everybody knew these were the drills that left bruises.

The kind Knox Callahan had built his career on.

I scanned the ice, looking for someone—anyone—who wouldn’t make me regret today.

Then his voice cut through everything.

Low. Rough.

Like he already knew I’d do what he said.

“You.”

Every head turned.

I froze for a second—just a beat too long—before I forced my skates forward.

Every step felt like walking into a trap.

He was still leaning against the boards, but there was nothing casual about it now.

He was waiting.

For me.

And everyone was watching—like they knew this was going to end badly for someone.

Maybe for both of us.

“I heard about you,” Knox said, his voice low, rough, the kind of tone designed to cut.

Mocking, but beneath it—something colder.

Something personal.

“The golden girl of Crestwood.”

His eyes flicked over me—slow, assessing—like he was sizing up a target, not a player.

“My dad thinks you’re capable of going all the way.”

The way he said it— my dad —was acid.

Bitter as hell.

It stung more than it should have, because it hit exactly where he wanted it to—right at the foundation of everything I’d built here.

I was Callahan’s girl.

The coach’s project.

Everyone knew it.

I stiffened, forcing my arms to cross over my chest like I wasn’t bothered.

“You keep tabs on all the local talent, Callahan? Or just the ones who might skate circles around you?”

His smirk cut sideways across his face—not amused, not really.

Interested. Hungry.

“Local talent,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone who hasn’t even made the national team yet.”

The dig hit dead-on.

Because he was right.

I felt that familiar flare of embarrassment, the one I always swallowed down—but this time, it burned hotter because it was him saying it.

Because he was the guy I grew up watching wear the jersey I was still chasing.

“Maybe focus on your own game instead of mine,” I snapped.

He laughed, but it wasn’t light—it was sharp, like glass breaking.

“You think you’re ready for this?” He leaned in closer, voice low. “Pressure’s different when the jersey’s on your back.”

I raised a brow, trying to play it cool even though his proximity was making my pulse climb, making my skin flush under my gear.

“You wouldn’t know pressure if it punched you in the face. Or wait… did you hit first?”

His smile stayed, but his eyes sharpened—something dangerous flashing beneath that practiced calm.

“At least I didn’t need daddy’s name to get my ice time.”

There it was.

The thing everyone thought but never said to my face.

I shouldn’t have let it get to me.

But it did.

I leaned in, voice like a blade. “Cute dig. But how’s that working out for you? You’re the guy who tanked his own career—now you’re playing babysitter for your dad’s team.” My smirk was vicious. “Is it take your son to work day, or just your retirement party?”

The air between us went tight.

Knox shifted forward, just slightly—but enough that I felt it. The weight of him. The heat. The threat.

Everyone was watching.

Holding their breath.

Waiting to see who’d crack.

I should’ve stepped back.

I didn’t.

“You can skate fast, Evans,” he murmured, voice like gravel, like a warning. “But I’ve broken better players than you.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, but I smiled through it—sharp, defiant. “Burned those bridges, huh?”

His laugh was low, under his breath—the kind that made my stomach twist in a way I hated.

I was winning this exchange.

So why did it feel like he was getting exactly what he wanted?

“You really think you’re gonna impress anyone with that attitude?” he asked, voice silky with disdain.

I should’ve left it there.

But he was under my skin now.

I stepped closer—into his space, letting my skates brush his—because if he was testing me, I was pushing back.

“Impressing people isn’t my goal,” I said, voice steady, eyes locked on his. “Winning is.”

The smirk returned—but it was different now. Like I’d finally shown him something worth seeing.

He tapped his stick against the ice. “Let’s see what you’ve got then.”

The puck dropped between us.

I lunged for it.

He slammed into me, hard and deliberate, sending shock waves through my body.

It hurt.

But I held my ground.

I fought like hell for the puck, but he made it brutal—hips, elbows, stick pushing against mine, his body crowding me into the boards.

“You want that jersey?” he taunted, breath hot against my ear. “This is what it costs.”

My skates slipped slightly under his pressure.

He was stronger.

More experienced.

And he was enjoying this.

I grit my teeth, shoved back harder, using every ounce of power in my legs. “Stop holding back.”

His breath hitched, then—just for a second. Like he hadn’t expected me to say that. Then that fucking smirk again. “Oh, sweetheart… I’m not even trying.”

My body was on fire—adrenaline, rage, and something else I didn’t want to name.

I was losing the battle.

But I wasn’t done.

He hit me like a fucking freight train.

My shoulder slammed into the boards with a brutal thud, my teeth snapping together as the cold plexiglass bit into my back. His body pinned me there—solid, unyielding—stick grinding against mine like a dare. The breath rushed out of me, but I held my ground, chest heaving against the weight of him.

Too close. Too fucking close.

Heat radiated off him—the kind that belonged in a bar fight, not a rink. His mouth was next to my ear, voice low and rough, for me alone. “Let’s see if Daddy’s favorite can take a real hit.”

Adrenaline spiked—sharp and hot—raging against the humiliation curling in my chest. I shoved back, hard, using every ounce of muscle I had.

He didn’t move.

Barely even shifted.

Just that fucking smirk.

Like he was letting me exhaust myself for his own entertainment.

I hated him.

I hated the way he was stronger than me.

I hated that he wanted me to know it.

And I hated that my skin was burning beneath my jersey because of him.

His hips pressed in harder—enough to make me stumble, just slightly.

“Come on, Evans,” he murmured, his breath hot against the back of my neck. His stick tapped against mine, deliberate, like he was playing with his food. “Is that all you’ve got?”

That snapped something inside me.

I twisted my stick against his, fighting dirty, trying to wedge the blade under his grip. My muscles burned, every nerve strung tight, but I didn’t care.

I was getting that puck.

This wasn’t about drills anymore.

This was about survival.

I lunged, blade scraping ice, trying to twist free—but he read me like a book, shifting his weight just enough to trap me against the boards again.

The wall of him—hard, hot, unforgiving—pressed into my back as he angled his stick, stealing the puck with that maddening ease.

My heart pounded against my ribs—not just from exertion, but from him.

From his fucking body crowding me.

From his mouth near my jaw when he leaned in, voice a growl.

“Too easy.”

I snapped.

I pushed back—not to escape, but to hit him. Shoulder into his chest. Teeth bared.

He laughed—deep, dark, like I’d given him exactly what he wanted.

He liked this.

Liked the fight.

Liked that I was pushing back, even though we both knew he was stronger.

That sick, twisted thrill shot through me again—the one that made me hate myself.

I hated losing.

But God, I liked fighting him.

He peeled away—fast, predatory—puck tucked against his blade like it belonged there.

I chased him.

Skates biting into the ice, heart pounding like a war drum, I went after him like he was the only thing that mattered.

Because right now, he was.

He glanced over his shoulder, that wild glimmer in his eyes—like he knew I was still there, still hungry.

Like he wanted me to be.

When he reached the net, he didn’t even need to shoot with force—just a flick of his wrist, effortless. The puck snapped into the goal like it was inevitable.

He turned to me, breathing hard, that smirk cutting across his face like a fucking victory flag.

Our eyes locked.

I was pissed.

I was buzzing.

I was alive.

“ Too slow, ” he said, voice low, teasing—but there was something darker underneath.

A challenge.

I slowed, skates slicing across the ice, chest rising and falling like I’d run miles.

I met his stare.

I didn’t look away.

And I knew.

This wasn’t over.

It was just getting started.

“Close one, Evans,” someone called, their voice laced with that syrupy, fake encouragement that made my teeth grind.

I bit back the heat rising in my cheeks, forcing my face into something blank. Unbothered. Controlled.

But inside, I was seething.

Knox turned toward me, skating backward slow, like he had all the time in the world. That smirk carved across his face—like he already knew he’d won.

Like he’d always win.

He propped his stick across his hips, eyes sharp under the shadow of his helmet. “That the best you got, golden girl?”

The laughter tightened behind me.

I clenched my teeth. He knew exactly what he was doing—poking at me, testing for a crack.

I skated forward, quick, closing the space between us. “Keep running your mouth, Callahan. We’ll see who’s laughing later.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “You think chirping back makes you tough?” His gaze flicked down—just once—then back to my eyes. “I could put you through that glass and you’d still get up smiling for daddy.”

My breath hitched—because it wasn’t an empty threat. He’d do it. And part of me thought…

I’d get up smiling just to spite him.

I squared my shoulders, stepping into his space, blades scraping against his. “Try it.”

For a beat, we just stood there—close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek, the heat radiating from him under all that padding.

His eyes dragged over me slowly—like he was cataloging every weakness, every opening to exploit—and yet, there was something else under it.

Something he was fighting to smother.

He clicked his tongue, like he was disappointed. “You’ve got a little bite, I’ll give you that.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I snapped.

He tilted his head, voice dropping lower—gravelly, dangerous. “I know your type.”

A pause.

“Daddy’s star player. Always does what she’s told. Never been hit hard enough to see what you’re really made of.”

The words cut more than I wanted to admit—because he was too close to the truth.

I took a step back—not retreating, just… repositioning.

I told myself that.

“You don’t scare me,” I said, steady.

His eyes narrowed, amused.

“No?” He moved closer, his voice a taunt and a promise. “You should be.”

The shiver that rolled through me this time wasn’t unwelcome.

He noticed.

Of course, he fucking noticed.

I skated backward, reaching into the net to retrieve the puck, using the motion to pull in a slow breath. Steady your hands. Show nothing.

But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was still watching me—like he was waiting.

Waiting to see when I’d break.

Or if I’d hit back harder.

I curled my fingers tight around my stick, letting the pressure ground me.

Not today.