Page 27

Knox

I woke up wrecked—hard, aching, mind still tangled in the remnants of a dream that felt too fucking real.

Because it was always her.

Iris Evans.

Her name was carved into my goddamn bones at this point. I felt her in my pulse, in my lungs, in the heavy weight pressing against my skin like a vice. Every night, she haunted me. And every morning, I woke up like this—breathless, strung tight, needing something I shouldn’t even be thinking about.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. The sheets were twisted around my legs, suffocating, but not nearly as suffocating as this obsession burrowing deeper under my skin.

In the dream, she had been skating—strong, fierce, that fire burning in her eyes like she wanted to tear me apart. And fuck if that didn’t make my blood race. I could almost feel the press of her body against mine, the heat rolling off her, the way her breath would stutter when I got too close.

But it wasn’t just the physicality of it.

It was the way she fought back. The way she refused to back down, meeting me head-on like she was made to withstand the storm I brought into her life. She didn’t just take the pressure—I could see it in her eyes. She craved it.

Just like I craved her.

I gritted my teeth, pushing myself up, trying to shake off the last traces of sleep that clung to me like a ghost. But it was useless.

Because I didn’t just want her.

I wanted to own her.

I wanted to fucking ruin her.

And the sickest part? I wanted to see if she’d let me. If she’d take the hit and come back stronger. If she’d crawl back onto that ice, chin high, daring me to do it again.

The thought sent a jolt through my body, dark and electric.

This wasn’t about hockey anymore.

It wasn’t even about control.

It was about her.

And that meant I was already lost.

Iris was slipping.

I saw it in the way her grip tightened around her stick, in the hesitation that wasn’t there before. The fire in her eyes was still burning, but now there was something else licking at the edges—something uncertain, something unraveling.

She was fighting herself as much as she was fighting for that damn jersey.

And I fucking hated it.

“Again!” I barked, voice cutting through the heavy air of the rink.

Iris clenched her jaw and took off, pushing harder, trying to outrun whatever the hell was sinking its claws into her. I tracked every movement, every slip, every shaky inhale.

She wasn’t breaking.

Not yet.

But she was close.

Her speed wavered just enough for me to see the doubt creeping in, and that made my blood boil. Not at her—but at whatever had put that crack in her foundation. At whoever had made her hesitate.

I pushed off the boards, skating toward her as she battled through another drill. The moment she came around the corner, I cut into her space, body-checking her hard against the glass. Not enough to send her crashing—but enough to make a point.

She gasped, eyes flashing with fire as she shoved me back. “What the hell, Callahan?”

I smirked. “Figure it out, Evans. You think they’re gonna go easy on you?”

Her breath came fast, sharp. Frustration flared in her expression, but beneath it, I saw something else—relief. Like she’d been waiting for someone to snap her out of whatever headspace she was drowning in.

I leaned in just enough to lower my voice, making sure only she could hear me. “You want that jersey?” I murmured. “Then stop running from whatever’s got its hooks in you. Face it. Take the hit.”

She swallowed hard, pulse hammering against the thin skin of her throat.

I didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The moment stretched, thick and heavy with something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly, she shoved off the boards and skated away.

Not running.

Not breaking.

But burning.

And fuck if I didn’t want to burn right along with her.

I skated backward, watching her carefully, measuring every flicker of emotion that passed across her face. She was furious, breathing hard, eyes locked onto mine like she wanted to carve her frustration straight into my skin.

Good.

Let her be angry. Let her feel every ounce of it. Because that anger? It was better than hesitation. Better than whatever the hell had been haunting her all practice.

I pushed her, and she pushed back.

That was our game.

But today, something had shifted.

The way she looked at me wasn’t just defiance—it was something deeper, something raw. She was waiting for me to say something. To close the distance.

To choose her.

And fuck, I wanted to. I wanted to grab her by the jersey, haul her against me, and let her know exactly who she belonged to. I wanted to feel her fight me, wanted her to push back just as hard, wanted her to break just so I could put her back together the way I wanted.

But instead, I gave her nothing.

I took a slow, deliberate step away.

Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but then her jaw tightened, her body coiling with renewed frustration.

She hated this. Hated the way I had her tied up in knots.

And I fucking loved it.

I turned away first, dismissing her without a word. I heard the sharp inhale of breath she took, the quiet scrape of her skates as she stiffened in place. She was waiting for me to acknowledge her, to let her know she wasn’t losing her mind, that this pull between us wasn’t just in her head.

But I wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Because she needed to suffer a little longer. Needed to understand that no matter how hard she fought me on this, I would always push harder.

I felt her glare burning into my back as I called out to the rest of the team, signaling the next drill.

And still, I fucking smirked.

I pushed her harder for the rest of practice, watching as she fought to keep up with my intensity. Every drill, every puck battle, I made sure she felt me—pushing back just enough to remind her who was in control. She kept her head high, but I could see the strain behind those fierce eyes.

Practice ended, and the rink slowly emptied as my team dispersed. I leaned against the boards, letting the adrenaline from the session wear off. That was when I spotted Iris near the bench, taping her stick with a focus that had nothing to do with hockey.

Then Chris Langley strolled over, all easy charm and that smile he thought he had a right to flash around like it meant something. My stomach twisted at the sight of him leaning too close to Iris, invading her space with casual familiarity.

She smiled at him—not her real smile, but a practiced one. It didn’t matter; it wasn’t genuine. It was just a mask for whatever had been eating at her all day.

I tightened my grip on the boards, the cold bite of the metal barely registering through the fire simmering beneath my skin. Every fiber of my being screamed to intervene, to yank her away from him, to remind her who she belonged to.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I watched—silent, calculating, my chest rising and falling with each deep breath I forced into my lungs.

Chris fucking Langley. Acting like he had a right to stand so close.

Iris shifted her weight slightly, her fingers curling tighter around the roll of tape in her hands. A tell. She wasn’t as relaxed as she wanted to seem. Not with him.

And sure as hell not with me watching.

Chris said something else—low enough that I couldn’t hear it—but it made her laugh. Or at least, it made her pretend to laugh.

That sound twisted inside me like a knife.

And then he touched her shoulder.

Chris touched her shoulder—too familiar.

The way he leaned in, all easy charm and casual confidence, made my stomach twist into a tight knot.

I saw the way Iris reacted; her smile faltering for just a heartbeat before she recovered.

It didn’t matter that it was just a friendly gesture; in that moment, it felt like a challenge.

My pulse quickened, adrenaline surging through my veins as I watched them. It was primal, instinctual. This wasn’t about logic or professionalism—it was raw and visceral. Something inside me snapped as I felt the heat rising in my chest.

Predatory.

Territorial.

Mine.

Before I could even think through the consequences, I pushed off the boards and stormed toward them, muscles coiled and ready to strike. The rink blurred around me; all I could focus on was that hand resting on her shoulder like he had any right to claim her.

I felt alive with rage and something else—something intoxicating—and there was no turning back now.

Chris noticed me first. His easy smile faltered, and I saw it—the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Good.

I stopped just beside them, the tension thick enough to strangle. Iris went still, the roll of tape slipping from her fingers onto the bench.

“Evans,” I said, my voice even, but edged with something darker. Something lethal.

Chris straightened slightly, shifting his weight like he was ready to hold his ground. Like he thought he had a chance.

“We were just talking about dinner,” he said smoothly, but there was something forced behind it now.

My eyes didn’t leave hers.

I didn’t give a fuck about whatever excuse he was trying to make.

I wasn’t asking.

“I need you in my office,” I told her, low and firm.

A command.

A goddamn need.

Her lips parted slightly, breath catching, but she didn’t argue. She knew better than to push back right now.

Chris, however, had to make it difficult.

“She’s got plans,” he said, casual but pointed. “You can’t keep her here all night, Coach.”

I turned my head slowly, finally letting my gaze settle on him.

Wrong fucking move, Langley.

“That so?” I murmured, my tone deceptively calm.

Chris held his ground, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what was happening here.

I didn’t look at him again.

Instead, I stepped past him, close enough that he had no choice but to shift back, then reached down and grabbed the roll of tape from the bench.

I held it out to Iris.