Page 21

Iris

T he moment I stepped off the ice, the chill of the rink didn’t do anything to cool the heat radiating from my skin.

Knox's hand lingered on my hip like a brand, searing me in a way I couldn’t shake.

I could still feel the weight of his gaze, how it pinned me in place, how it made my heart race and breath hitch.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I walked down the dim corridor. The sound of my skates echoed behind me, a constant reminder of what just happened.

You can’t pretend you don’t feel it.

Those words replayed in my head like an insistent mantra. He had said them with that low, gravelly voice, like he knew exactly how much they’d affect me. And damn it if they didn’t slice through every wall I’d built around myself. I wasn’t ready to admit that he was right.

My heart pounded as I recalled the challenge in his eyes when he’d asked if I was going to play it safe or fight for what I wanted. Fight for what? The jersey? The dream? Or something deeper—something dangerous?

Anger surged through me, a hot tide crashing against the walls of my composure.

How dare he assume he could rattle me like this?

How dare he toy with my feelings while pretending it was all about hockey?

But beneath that anger lay embarrassment—a shameful blush creeping up my cheeks when I thought about how much his words turned me on.

I pushed through the doors and stepped into the locker room. I kept replaying his smirk as he leaned in closer, so close that all I had to do was tip my head up and bridge that last bit of distance between us.

But no—I wouldn’t let myself go there.

Yet part of me craved it—the danger, the intensity, everything Knox Callahan represented.

I peeled off my gear, each piece feeling heavier than the last. The pads clanked against the bench, a sharp reminder of what I’d just endured.

Knox's voice echoed in my mind—taunting, challenging. I hated how much it stirred something deep inside me. He was my coach, and he was dangerous; I knew that. But my body didn’t care about reason or rules.

It craved the fire he ignited with every word.

The shower washed over me like a cold wave, yet it couldn’t cleanse away the heat that lingered on my skin.

I stood under the spray, letting it drown out everything but my thoughts—the way his fingers had brushed against me, how he made me feel both powerful and exposed at the same time.

I forced myself to focus on the water cascading down, counting each drop as if it could somehow ground me back to reality.

But reality felt distant now, warped by the tension that had filled the rink just hours before. As I lathered shampoo into my hair, memories of Knox’s smirk flashed through my mind—the way his eyes held mine like they wanted to consume me whole.

I shut my eyes tightly against the water and tried to breathe through the turmoil swirling inside me.

This is wrong, I told myself again and again.

He’s your coach. Yet every time I repeated it, something twisted in my gut reminded me that I felt more alive in those moments than I had in a long time.

When I finally emerged from the shower and dressed, the familiar routine felt foreign. Each movement seemed automatic as if someone else was going through the motions while I remained trapped somewhere else—somewhere with him.

The drive home blurred past in a haze of streetlights and shadows. My heart raced as though it had forgotten how to beat steadily without his presence nearby. It gnawed at me—the unsettling realization that part of me felt lost, left behind on that ice where our worlds collided.

As I turned into my driveway, a hollow ache settled in my chest. That part of me? It craved his chaos even while knowing it was wrong—and all I could do was wonder what it meant for everything ahead.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows dancing in the dim light.

Sleep felt miles away, taunting me as I tossed and turned.

Every time I closed my eyes, his face flashed behind my lids—Knox’s mouth, that smirk that could ignite something deep within me.

His hands had brushed against my hip, and I could still feel the ghost of that touch.

The memory sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to shake it off, to summon images of Chris instead.

He was safe; he was kind. Yet when I pictured him—his smile, his laugh—it fell flat.

There was no spark, no thrill. Just a warm familiarity that couldn’t touch the wildfire Knox ignited with a single glance.

Frustration clawed at me as I buried my face in my pillow, trying to muffle the thoughts swirling in my head.

But Knox crept back in with every breath I took.

The way he leaned in closer during practice had left me breathless, his voice a low whisper against my ear— You can’t pretend you don’t feel it.

God, how did he do this to me? My heart raced just thinking about him. My thighs pressed together instinctively as if that would somehow quench the fire he had lit inside me. The shame washed over me like ice water; how could I want him?

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, willing myself to think about something else—anything else—but every time his image slipped away, it only returned stronger and more vivid than before.

My fingers curled into fists under the sheets as I fought against it all—the desire battling against reason. This wasn’t who I was supposed to be. A good player wanted safety; a smart player kept her distance from chaos.

But Knox wasn’t just chaos; he was intoxicating, reckless—and part of me craved every dangerous moment we shared on that ice. And that realization twisted inside me like a knife.

I hated myself for wanting him like this—hated myself for letting him into my head when all he should be is a coach guiding me toward a jersey with Team USA stitched on it.

Yet there I lay—lost between what felt right and what made me feel alive—and all I could do was stare at that ceiling and wait for sleep to finally take me away from this torment.

Deep down, I knew what this was. Knox wasn’t just some passing crush; he was the storm on the horizon, dark and looming, threatening to tear apart everything I’d built. The safety of my routine, the warmth of my dad’s encouragement—it all felt so fragile in comparison to what Knox represented.

He was the chaos I craved but also the very thing that could ruin me.

The more I thought about him, the more I wanted to lean into that danger.

I couldn’t deny how alive he made me feel—how every glance from him sent shivers racing through my body.

It was thrilling and terrifying, and part of me hated myself for wanting it, anyway.

I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up again. Focus on hockey, I reminded myself. Focus on the jersey.

But every time I pictured that emblem stitched across my chest, all I could see was Knox standing behind me, his eyes fierce with intensity. How could he make something so important feel secondary?

I remembered the way he challenged me during practice—the way his voice had dropped low when he asked if I was ready to fight for what I wanted. His words echoed in my mind like a siren song. He made me want to rise above—to push harder than anyone else ever had.

But at what cost?

He could burn it all down—the dreams I had worked for, the approval from my dad that meant everything. And yet here I was, torn between ambition and desire, caught in this web he’d spun around me.

I shook my head as if that would clear my thoughts, but it only made them swirl faster. Knox Callahan—my coach, my distraction—had infiltrated every corner of my mind and heart. No amount of denial would change that.

Maybe it was time to accept what I felt instead of fighting against it. Maybe embracing that fire was better than living in fear of getting burned. As scary as it sounded, part of me yearned for whatever chaos came with him.

The morning light filtered through my window, casting a soft glow across the room. I pushed myself out of bed, determined to reclaim my routine. Structure grounded me; it always had.

I made my way to the kitchen and grabbed the protein shake I had prepared the night before. The cold liquid slid down my throat as I reminded myself that today was just another day of practice.

I moved through my stretches with practiced precision, each movement deliberate and familiar. The pain in my foot still throbbed, but it was manageable. Taping it up felt like a ritual—an armor against whatever came next on the ice.

Afterward, I stood in front of the mirror, glancing at the poster of Team USA plastered on my wall. It showed fierce athletes in their glory—focused, strong, untouchable. Each time I looked at it, determination surged within me.

But today? Today, all I could see was Knox’s face reflecting back at me.

His gaze haunted me—the way he looked at me during practice last night like I belonged to him already. My heart raced just thinking about it, a forbidden thrill curling in my stomach.

I tried to shake it off as I tightened the last wrap around my foot, but there was no escaping the truth: part of me wanted to belong to him.

Focus on hockey, I thought again as I tugged on my gear and laced up my skates with purpose. But as much as I wanted to drown out his influence with routine and discipline, his presence loomed large in every corner of my mind.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror again—a fierce competitor staring back—but all I felt was that strange mix of longing and anxiety swirling inside me. What would happen if this desire took hold? What if giving in meant losing everything?

The more I fought against those thoughts, the more they tightened around me like a noose. I turned away from the mirror and headed for the door, but Knox’s smirk lingered in my mind—so sure and confident.