Page 20

She glided across the ice like she owned it, each stroke of her blades cutting clean through the silence.

I pretended to focus on paperwork, tapping a pen against my desk, but my eyes were locked on her.

Tracking her. Every stride, every pivot, every sharp turn—it was like she was working through something, pushing harder than anyone else had during practice.

Like today wasn’t about getting better. Like today was personal.

I shifted in my seat, abandoning the bullshit pretense of writing up those player reports my father wanted and letting my attention drift fully to her.

She paused—wiped sweat from her brow—looked up.

For a second, I thought she’d catch me watching. That she’d see straight through me.

But then—she pushed off again.

Launching into another drill with the same relentless energy that made me want to test her. To push her further.

Damn it.

Something coiled tight in my chest, a mixture of need and frustration. Watching wasn’t enough anymore. I needed to be closer.

I stood.

Each step felt heavy with purpose as I crossed the rink, the cold air biting at my skin.

I didn’t call out to her right away.

She felt me coming.

I laced up my skates slowly, each tug of the laces grounding me, keeping my hands busy while my mind spiraled. I needed control. The ice always gave me that—sharp, clean, ruthless.

But tonight, control felt out of reach.

I stepped onto the rink, my breath sharp in the cold air. The untouched surface stretched out before me, a blank slate—except for her.

Focused. Fierce. Beautiful.

Mine.

The thought slammed into me, hard and unrelenting. Fucking dangerous.

I pushed off, gliding toward her, my strides long and slow. Measured. Deliberate. She didn’t hear me coming, too caught up in whatever war she was fighting inside her own head.

I didn’t call out.

Didn’t need to.

I reached her side and—without a word—placed my hand on her stick.

She froze.

A sharp inhale.

Then—she turned.

Wide, startled eyes locked onto mine, and I felt that familiar electricity snap between us. Unspoken, undeniable.

“Why him?” I asked, my voice low, quiet—just for her.

“What?” Her brows knitted together, pretending she didn’t know what I meant. Fucking liar.

I leaned in, closing the space between us, letting the silence stretch taut. “Langley.”

Her posture shifted—stiff, defensive—but I saw it.

The crack.

That tiny flicker of uncertainty beneath the fire in her gaze.

“You don’t want him.”

Her lips parted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Her grip tightened on her stick, knuckles white, like she needed something to hold onto.

She squared her shoulders, standing tall—but somehow still smaller.

This wasn’t about Langley. This was about her and me.

“Why do you care?” she shot back, voice sharp, brittle, like she was trying to carve out a boundary that neither of us would ever respect.

I smirked.

Because she already knew the answer.

“Because he’s not good for you.” I kept my tone even, but the words carried weight, slicing through the cold between us.

Her jaw clenched. A storm brewed in her eyes, wild and untamed, but she didn’t look away.

And for a moment, there was nothing else—just us in this frozen world, where the lines between right and wrong blurred into something dark, something reckless.

Something inevitable.

But I wasn’t done.

Not even close.

I stepped closer, the ice beneath my skates groaning slightly under the shift. We brushed—just barely—but I felt it.

Heat. Electricity. Something sharp and alive crackling between us, pulling us in.

She stiffened, a breath catching in her throat. Barely there, but I caught it. Of course I caught it.

I let the silence stretch, pushing against the tension wrapping around us like a vice. Testing her. Daring her.

Until.

“You can’t pretend you don’t feel it, Evans.”

She inhaled sharply—a tell, a slip, a crack. But then—she squared her shoulders. A reflex. A shield. A flimsy fucking defense against the inevitable.

“You’re my coach,” she said, voice hard, but underneath? A tremor.

I smirked. Slow. Dark. A grin that carried the weight of something dangerous, something real. “Yeah…” I murmured. “And you still want me.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

It hung between us like a blade suspended in midair, ready to fall.

Her chest rose and fell quickly, a steady rhythm of denial warring with something raw and unspoken. Her grip tightened around her stick like it might keep her standing. Like it might keep her from falling straight into me.

I watched her fight it—fight me.

And it only made me want her more.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shot back, sharp, controlled—except it wasn’t. Because she knew what I was doing.

And worse? She wanted me to keep doing it.

I tilted my head, studying her, letting my voice drop lower. “Just stating facts.” I leaned in, just enough to let my breath brush against hers in the cold air. “You think I don’t notice?” I murmured. “How hard you push? How you come alive when I challenge you?”

Her lashes fluttered, the tiniest movement, but it sent a punch of satisfaction straight through my chest. She wanted to fight this. Didn’t know how. She licked her lips—a subconscious tell.

“I’m not interested in games,” she said through clenched teeth.

Lie.

A fucking lie.

I could see it flicker across her features, the battle between reason and whatever this was. And deep inside me, something dark curled in satisfaction.

She could fight it all she wanted. She could deny it.

But we were already past the point of no return.

And God help me—I wasn’t about to stop now.

I should have backed off.

I should have stepped away, let her breathe, let the tension settle before it swallowed us both whole.

But that wasn’t what I did.

Instead, I leaned in closer, my breath warm against her ear, my voice dropping low—gravelly, rough. “So what’s it gonna be, Evans?”

She shivered. Barely there. But I fucking felt it.

“You gonna play it safe? Or are you gonna fucking win?”

The air between us tightened, electric, charged like the moments before a fight broke out on the ice.

Her chest rose and fell too fast beneath the fabric of her jersey, and I watched—waited.

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away either.

And that? That was a win.

A rush flooded through me—like I had just landed a perfect hit, like the buzzer had just sounded in overtime and I knew we had taken the game. This moment was mine.

Her hesitation hung thick between us, an invisible battle I could feel in the heat radiating off her skin.

I stepped in just enough to let the weight of my presence settle over her. “You’ve got fire.” My voice was quiet, taunting. Dangerous. “But you’ve got to learn how to use it.”

Her jaw tightened like she was forcing down whatever the hell was clawing its way up her throat. I saw it—that fight she was trying so hard to bury.

I wanted to see it break free.

I wanted to see her burn.

I wanted her to fight me.

Because fighting me meant she couldn’t ignore this.

She couldn’t ignore me .

I tipped my head just enough for our eyes to meet again—dark, locked in a silent standoff, neither of us willing to move first.

I breathed in the sharp scent of sweat and ice, hearing the thrum of her pulse, fast and erratic, like she had already lost the battle she wouldn’t admit she was fighting.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked, my voice nothing more than a murmur—a challenge, a dare, a goddamn line drawn in the ice.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then—she swallowed, steadied herself. “Nothing,” she shot back, but her voice betrayed her.

The defiance was there, but it was shaky.

I smirked.

Liar.

Her pulse hammered in her throat, loud enough that I could almost hear it. She wanted to convince herself she was unaffected, that she could skate right past this, past me.

But deep down?

She wanted this fight just as much as I did.

And fuck if that didn’t make me want to push her even harder.

My hand brushed her hip—just a whisper of contact, but it felt like a declaration. Intentional. My fingers lingered for the briefest moment, daring to stake a claim.

She didn’t flinch.

That was my first victory.

I felt her breath hitch, stuttering like she couldn’t decide if it was from shock or something deeper. I fucking savored it. That tiny, stolen moment pulsed with electricity, a live wire snapping between us—dangerous, inevitable.

But before I could lean in closer, before I could test just how far this tension could stretch before it snapped, she pulled away. Just barely. Enough to send an icy rush of disappointment through me.

“I need to go,” she said. Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something that didn’t quite match the certainty in her words.

She pushed off fast, like she was running from something. From me. From whatever had just cracked open between us.

I watched her go, the way her blades sliced through the ice with urgency, each stride more determined than the last. But just as she reached the edge of the rink, she hesitated—just for a second.

And then she glanced back.

That glance? It wrecked me.

It was a contradiction—part hesitation, part surrender. Like she already knew she’d lost, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

I exhaled, tension coiling tight in my chest.

She could run all she wanted. But we were already tangled in this mess, and we both knew it.

She would come back.

She had to come back.

I stood alone on the ice, watching her disappear down the tunnel. My chest heaved, breaths coming in sharp bursts as adrenaline coursed through me. It burned beneath my skin—wild, electric, impossible to contain.

I had pushed her hard—maybe harder than I should have—but I didn’t regret it.

Not for a second. The way she fought back, the way her eyes flashed with pure fucking defiance?

It sent a thrill racing through me, sharp and addictive, like the first real hit in a game.

That moment when everything locked into place, and the only thing left was instinct.

My fists clenched at my sides, the tension vibrating through me like a live wire. I wanted to chase after her. Grab her, force her to stay in this moment with me, demand that she acknowledge whatever the hell this was between us.

But I didn’t.

I exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down the fire raging inside me.

This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. It wasn’t about pushing her toward greatness or proving that she could take a hit.

This was personal. She had gotten under my skin, burrowed so deep I could feel her there even when she wasn’t in front of me.

A slow smirk crept across my lips. She thought she could escape me? No fucking chance.

This wasn’t over.

It had barely begun.

I could feel it in my bones—the tension between us had cracked wide open tonight, and there was no shoving it back into place. It was only a matter of time before we both crossed that line completely.

I let my gaze drift over the empty rink; the silence contrasting sharply with the storm still churning inside me. I could picture her leaving—hair damp with sweat, shoulders stiff with defiance.

But that fire in her?

That refusal to break, even when she should’ve?

That was going to bring her back to me.

She just needed a push.

And I’d be the one to give it to her.

I took one last breath, letting the sharp cold of the rink cool my blood. She would come back. They always did when you pushed them hard enough.

And when she did?

I’d be ready.