Page 23

Knox

I woke up before the sun, the room thick with heat despite the early morning chill.

Sweat slicked my chest, my cock already half-hard, a cruel reminder of the dream that had ripped me from sleep.

The sheets twisted around my legs, tight and suffocating, but not nearly as constricting as the tension coiled in my gut.

I dreamed of her again.

Iris—wild and fucking relentless, pushing against me with that fierce little fire in her eyes.

In the dream, I’d pinned her against the boards, our bodies colliding, friction igniting like a live wire between us.

I could still feel the way she’d strained against me, strong and stubborn, trying to fight the inevitable.

Like she had a fucking chance.

My fingers dug into my scalp as I exhaled sharply, trying to shake it off. It wasn’t the first time. And God help me, I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I’d spent too many nights like this—tangled in my own sheets, tangled in her. Or at least the thought of her.

This was more than frustration. More than obsession.

She was under my skin, lodged in a place I couldn’t rip her out of, no matter how much I tried.

And I was done trying.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the silence. My pulse kicked up—because for a second, I let myself think it might be her. Maybe a text asking if I was ready for practice. Maybe something bolder, something reckless that hinted at everything simmering beneath the surface.

But it wasn’t.

Just a goddamn reminder about the training schedule.

I tossed the phone aside and pushed myself up, my muscles tight with lingering frustration. My body ached with the need to move, to hit something, to burn through this restless energy before it consumed me whole. The rink was calling me—the ice, the boards, the fight.

And her.

Always her.

Because no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, this had never been about coaching.

It was about Iris.

The way she skated like she had something to prove. The way she took a hit and came back harder. The way she fucking challenged me, like she wasn’t already mine.

But she was.

And today, I wasn’t holding back.

I stared at the Team USA jersey shoved, its fabric wrinkled and worn, a relic of a life I barely recognized anymore. The sight twisted something deep in my gut—a reminder of everything I had lost.

A badge of honor turned to a ghost.

Once, I wore it with pride. Once, it meant something. Now, it was a reminder of failure. Of the moment I let it all slip through my fingers.

And she was out there, chasing that dream with every ounce of fight she had—just like I once did.

But she didn’t know what I’d become.

The weight of guilt settled in my chest like a vice, pressing harder with every breath. What if I ruined her shot? What if my obsession led her down a path she could never come back from? The thought clawed at the edges of my mind, a warning I should’ve listened to.

But I didn’t.

Because beneath the guilt, beneath the fear, something darker slithered in—a hunger that left no room for doubt.

I was already too far gone.

She was already mine.

Every time I watched her skate, something primal ignited inside me. This wasn’t just about coaching anymore. This was about claiming her—the fight in her, the fire, the way she stood in my path like she belonged there.

She didn’t back down. Not on the ice. Not with me.

And that? That made it impossible to walk away.

I could still feel the way she pushed back in drills yesterday—how she met my intensity head-on, refusing to break.

It sent a jolt through me, hot and electric, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Every time our bodies collided, every accidental touch, every challenge that passed between us—it built something dangerous, something neither of us had control over anymore.

The air thickened whenever we squared off, our breath sharp in the cold, tension winding tight around us like an unspoken promise.

And the truth hit me hard.

I didn’t just want her for what she could bring to the ice.

I wanted all of her—her strength, her fire, the way she fucking looked at me like she knew I could destroy her and still wasn’t afraid.

But that guilt still lurked, coiling deep inside me—a reminder of how easily I could wreck her.

How easily I could ruin everything.

I stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold around me. The girls skated through drills, some laughing, others gritting their teeth as they fought for space. I kept my distance—cold, sharp, unreadable.

With everyone but her.

Iris was a different story.

Every time she cut through the ice, I felt it like a shockwave.

Her presence disrupted everything. My focus, my control, my carefully built indifference—it all unraveled with each powerful stride she took.

The determination in her eyes was a challenge, one I could feel like a rope tightening around my throat.

And every time our eyes met, the air between us thickened—heavy with something neither of us wanted to name.

“Evans!” I barked, my voice slicing through the noise. “Push harder!”

She snapped her head toward me, her glare flickering between irritation and something sharper—something that lit a fire low in my gut.

I smirked. She had fight.

But that fire inside her made me reckless too.

It coiled through my veins, an unrelenting burn as I stepped closer to the ice, drawn to her in a way that made no goddamn sense.

I didn’t just want to coach her—I wanted to push her until she had nothing left.

I wanted to break through that perfect composure, watch her unravel under my hands.

She skated near me again, and my gaze locked onto hers—sharp, hungry, unyielding. This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. It was about testing limits, about seeing which one of us would crack first.

Then she took a hit—hard, unexpected. Another player knocked her off balance, and she went down, landing hard against the ice. Something in my chest went tight.

Before I even thought about it, I took a step forward.

“Get up,” I commanded, voice low but cutting.

Her eyes snapped up to mine, and for a second, neither of us moved.

I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve let her shake it off like she always did.

But I didn’t.

I stayed close, watching the way her chest rose and fell beneath her jersey, the flush of exertion across her skin, the stubborn set of her mouth as she refused to stay down.

“Don’t back down,” I murmured, something raw scraping at the edges of my voice.

She pushed herself to her feet, shoulders tense, jaw tight, but her breathing was uneven now. So was mine.

And for a moment—one dangerous, fleeting moment—I swore she felt it too.

The way this thing between us pulsed, alive and hungry.

We were playing with fire. Dancing along the edge of something neither of us could control.

And fuck if I didn’t want to see just how far we could fall.

I watched Iris move through the drills like she had something to prove. Every stride, every pivot, every shove against her teammates sent a jolt through my veins. She skated hard, shoulders squared, fire in her eyes. Good. That fire kept me locked onto her, unwilling to look away.

But it wasn’t enough.

I needed to see more. Needed to see her break past that thin veneer of control and into something raw.

So I called for full contact.

Again.

Or maybe I wanted an excuse to touch her in front of an audience.

“Let’s see what you’re made of!” I barked across the ice, my voice cutting through the steady rhythm of blades scraping against the rink.

The girls braced themselves. Tension crackled in the air.

They went at it—fighting for the puck, bodies colliding against the boards, breath heavy in the cold air. But my focus was locked onto her. Always her. And when she hesitated for a fraction of a second, I pounced.

“Evans!” My voice rang across the rink like a gunshot. “Get your head in the game! You want that jersey? Then show me you deserve it!”

The shift was instant. The other girls felt it. Their skates slowed, their gazes flickering between me and her. The command in my voice wasn’t just about coaching—it was about claiming.

She knew it, too.

Her glare snapped to mine, bright and furious, but underneath it, I saw something else. A flicker of recognition. Of understanding.

She squared her shoulders, grip tightening around her stick, and dove back into the drill with vengeance. She battled harder, slammed into the girl beside her, took a hit but came out stronger. When she came away with the puck—when she skated off victorious—I smirked.

“Good,” I muttered under my breath.

But this wasn’t just about hockey.

This was about us.

As the drill wrapped up, the tension still clung to the air like a thick fog, refusing to dissipate. The other players started shuffling off the ice, laughing, catching their breath.

Not her.

She was still locked in, the adrenaline thrumming through her veins, the fight not yet shaken from her body.

I wasn’t ready to let her leave, anyway.

“Evans!”

She stilled at the sound of her name, turning slowly. Reluctantly.

“Stay back.”

Her brow furrowed, curiosity flickering behind those sharp eyes, but I caught the uncertainty beneath it. She could pretend all she wanted, but we both knew what was happening here.

The other girls exchanged glances before heading toward the locker room, a few of them smirking, a few of them whispering. They didn’t know what this was, but they felt it.

They all knew she was my favorite.

But not the way a coach picks a star player.

No, this was something else. Something more. And I had no intention of letting her leave this rink until we both understood exactly what that meant.

I watched her—breathless, flushed, a sheen of sweat on her skin as she stood her ground. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, her body still vibrating from the drill. But it wasn’t exhaustion that burned behind those blue eyes.