Page 29

Iris

T he moment I stepped out of the rink, my body buzzed with adrenaline and confusion.

My skin burned where Knox had touched me, the heat radiating from my waist lingering like a brand.

I fought to process what had just happened, but every time I replayed the scene in my mind, it only deepened the chaos inside.

I didn’t push him away. I pulled him in.

What the hell was wrong with me? Shame crept through my veins like ice water, but it battled against something far more potent—desire. My heart raced at the memory of his breath against my ear, his voice low and dangerous. It sent shivers down my spine even now.

As I drove home, each breath felt heavier than the last. I wanted to scream at myself for how much I had liked it—the way he claimed me with that grip, how it felt like he could crush all my fears if only for a moment. No one else had ever made me feel so alive and so terrified at once.

I should’ve hated him for it—should’ve felt nothing but anger for his audacity—but there was something about that power exchange that ignited a spark inside me. It was twisted and wrong, yet somehow exhilarating.

In that brief moment, I felt free. Free from expectations, free from pressure—the weight of trying to be perfect slipped away as Knox’s presence filled that void instead. How could someone who threatened to ruin everything also feel like the very thing I needed?

I sank onto my bed, staring at the ceiling as confusion churned within me. Part of me craved more of that reckless energy he exuded; another part screamed that it would destroy everything I had worked for—the jersey, my future—but all I could focus on was how alive I felt in his presence.

And with every heartbeat echoing in my ears, one truth became undeniable: this—him—might be exactly what I'd been missing all along.

If I gave in, everything I’d worked for would slip through my fingers like water.

The jersey—the one that felt like a lifeline, a promise of everything I wanted—would be gone.

My father’s belief in me, the pride he took in my dedication, would vanish into thin air.

I could almost hear his voice echoing in my head, reminding me to stay focused, to keep my eye on the prize.

But still, no matter how hard I tried to push those thoughts away, Knox Callahan invaded my mind like an unwelcome intruder. I replayed his words over and over: “I see you.” The way he said it had twisted something inside me—a spark igniting a hunger I never expected.

In the darkness of my room, surrounded by posters of heroes and champions, I felt anything but heroic. I felt weak. My heart raced at the memory of him backing me against the boards, his grip firm and possessive. That moment wasn’t just a threat; it was a challenge.

How could someone so dangerous make me feel so alive? It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

Lying on my bed, I tried to refocus on what mattered—the jersey, the team—but it was futile. Each time my mind wandered back to Knox, it wrapped around me like a vice. The thrill of wanting him gnawed at the edges of my sanity, teasing me with possibilities that could ruin everything.

What if this obsession drove me to the edge? What if giving in meant losing sight of myself? Yet even as those questions swirled through my mind like a storm, another part of me whispered sweetly that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth risking everything for.

I pressed my hands against my face, willing myself to breathe slowly. A familiar weight settled in my chest—the fear of failure clashed with this reckless urge to embrace what was unfolding between us. Was it truly worth it? Did he even want me beyond the game?

The uncertainty gnawed at me until it became unbearable. My thoughts spun faster than ever as Knox's image flickered behind my eyelids—a dangerous flame that threatened to consume everything I held dear.

I stepped onto the rink Monday morning, grateful for the weekend that had given me time to breathe. It felt like a small reprieve from the chaos swirling in my head. I tried to shake off the tension that had become second nature around Knox.

The moment I walked into the rink, I felt it—the shift in energy.

He was different today—colder but not cruel, like an icy front pressing down on me, leaving no room for warmth or softness.

He stood at the far end, arms crossed, watching as the team filtered in.

There was a power radiating from him that wrapped around me like a thick fog.

His gaze swept over us, lingering on me just long enough to set my heart racing.

It was a promise of what he could do—what he could take—without uttering a single word.

I didn’t trust myself alone with him anymore; there was too much at stake. Every interaction felt like walking a tightrope, and I wasn’t sure how long I could maintain my balance.

As practice started, I noticed the way everyone moved more cautiously than usual.

The tension hung heavy in the air, each girl glancing at Knox as if anticipating some kind of reckoning.

It was almost palpable—a collective holding of breath—as if we all knew something monumental was about to happen.

He called out drills with precision but kept his eyes on me more than anyone else. It felt like he was dissecting every move I made while still maintaining an unsettling distance. I skated harder, pushed myself to keep up with his expectations while trying not to let his intensity overwhelm me.

But it wasn’t just sexual tension—it was power. He dominated the space without needing to touch me or raise his voice. Just being near him felt like stepping into an electric field where every glance ignited something deep inside.

With each passing moment, I understood—I belonged to him now. And somewhere within that realization, despite the fear clawing at my insides, there was an undeniable thrill.

I loved it.

I loved that feeling of being claimed without a single spoken word between us—a silent agreement.

I focused on the puck as it skated across the ice, my heart pounding like a drum. It was just a drill—puck battles along the boards—but I felt an intensity in the air that made every movement feel monumental. When I finally collided with Knox, it was different than I expected.

His body met mine not with aggression, but with a deliberate force that sent a jolt through me.

As we bumped together, his hand brushed against my hip—longer than necessary—his fingers lingering like a whisper against my skin.

I froze for a moment, the chill of the rink suddenly igniting into warmth where he touched me.

I tried to shake off the sensation, but it clung to me like a brand.

The ice beneath my skates became secondary to the awareness of him.

The way his breath hitched slightly when our bodies connected sent sparks coursing through my veins, igniting something deep within that I struggled to understand.

Knox skated away, but the contact lingered, an echo of heat left in its wake.

I fought to regain my composure as my teammates continued their drills around us, their laughter and shouts fading into a dull hum.

All I could focus on was where he had touched me—how it felt both electric and terrifying.

My heart raced as if trying to catch up with what had just happened. I cursed under my breath for letting myself get lost in it—lost in him. It shouldn’t have mattered; it should’ve been just another drill. Yet somehow, it felt significant, like crossing an invisible line that shouldn’t exist.

I shook my head slightly to clear my thoughts and pushed myself back into the rhythm of practice, trying to bury the sensation of his hand on my hip beneath layers of focus and determination.

But even as I moved, even as I tried to concentrate on hockey instead of Knox Callahan, that connection pulsed at the forefront of my mind—a reminder that nothing would ever be simple again.

Practice ended, and the ice started to empty, the chatter of my teammates fading as they gathered their gear and headed for the locker room.

I lingered, unwilling to leave just yet.

I craved more time on the ice—more time to escape from everything swirling in my head.

The rhythm of my skates gliding against the surface felt comforting, almost meditative.

I didn’t know how long I had been out there, but the rink grew quieter with each passing minute.

The overhead lights illuminated the pale blue surface, casting shadows that danced as I moved.

I pushed myself harder, lost in the flow of it all—drifting away from thoughts of Knox and everything he stirred within me.

Eventually, I noticed movement at the edge of my vision. Knox stepped out from his office, a silhouette against the bright light behind him. He paused when he saw me still on the ice, a slight tilt to his head as if assessing whether I was done for the day or not.

He began to skate toward me, his movements fluid and deliberate. There was something magnetic about his presence that made it impossible for me to look away. I should’ve left; I should’ve packed up and gone home like everyone else. But instead, I stayed.

The space between us closed as he glided closer. Neither of us spoke; words felt unnecessary at this moment. We shared a silence thick with tension that pulsed like an undercurrent beneath our blades. It was palpable—a shared understanding that something significant was happening between us.

As we skated together, slow and deliberate, the sound of our blades cut through the stillness like whispered secrets.

Each stroke brought us nearer in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

My heart raced, matching the rhythm of our movements, and I could feel his gaze on me—intense and consuming.