Page 4

More of her teeth bared and eyes burning.

More of her body fighting against mine.

It lit me up in a way nothing had in years.

I could still feel it—the heat of her breath near my ear, her chest pressing into mine, the faintest brush of her hip as she twisted against me.

It made my pulse pound in my ears like a fucking war drum. Made me want to push her harder. Trap her there longer. See what it would take to break her.

And the fucked-up part?

I didn’t even know if I wanted her to break. Or if I wanted her to survive it—just so I could do it all over again.

I gripped my stick tighter, like that would help. Like I could grind down the need that was already crawling under my skin.

I wanted to strip that polished, perfect veneer off her—tear it away until I found what was underneath.

Because I knew it was there.

I felt it when she pushed back—when she met me, hit for hit.

That fire.

That fucking fire.

I wanted to drag it all out of her.

Even if it burned us both down.

And maybe, deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about her. It was about me. About seeing if I could still push someone to their limit—without dragging us both over the edge.

Or maybe I wanted to see what happened if we fell.

Together.

I couldn’t shake the image of her in that sweater.

With her perfect curls and that fierce look in her eyes, gliding across the ice like she owned it.

The Crestwood logo stretched across her chest, bright against that white fabric.

But the thought twisted—because it wasn’t just the Crestwood name I saw.

Not even the Team USA jersey.

Mine.

Evans.

Didn’t fucking matter—so long as everyone knew she was mine.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut—twisting, ugly, possessive.

And it pissed me off.

She was a kid.

College player.

Too young.

Too fucking bright.

But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was her—sharp and fast, hair whipping behind her, that Crestwood logo stretched across her chest like she was born to wear it.

And in my head, I stripped it away. Replaced it with my name.

Knox fucking Callahan.

The weight of it lodged in my throat—a bitter pill I couldn’t swallow.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I gritted my teeth, pacing along the edge of the rink. I told myself it was the fight in her—the grit. The way she shoved back when I slammed her into the boards like she wanted more. The way she met me, breathless and furious, and didn’t flinch.

That was what I wanted.

The fire.

The fucking hunger.

But that was another lie.

Because it wasn’t just about her fight.

It was about marking her. About making sure when people looked at her, they saw me. Felt me under her skin.

Mine.

On the ice.

Off the ice.

Everywhere.

I hated myself for it.

But fuck, it was there—burning low in my gut like something I couldn’t cut out.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, trying to shake it off. But every flick of her wrist, every carve of her skates against the ice, was digging her in deeper—like a splinter I couldn’t reach.

An itch that was becoming a wound.

I pressed my knuckles into the boards, letting the cold bite into my skin. Pain was easier to hold onto than whatever the fuck this was.

This wasn’t about me.

It shouldn’t be about me.

But I knew better.

I knew this was personal now.

And every stride she took was pulling me closer to a line I shouldn’t cross—but already wanted to fucking bury myself in.

Her teammates whispered about Team USA like it was already hers. Like it was inevitable.

They didn’t know shit. Didn’t know the cost. Didn’t know what it took to wear that jersey—to earn it—to bleed for it.

But I did.

Every scar on my knuckles, every crack in my ribs, every fucking bruise that I wore under the red, white, and blue?—

That was the price.

That jersey wasn’t glory.

It was survival.

She thought she knew what she wanted.

But she had no fucking clue.

I could teach her.

I would teach her.

But I wouldn’t do it for my dad.

Or for Team USA.

I’d do it because I needed to see what she looked like when she finally bled for it.

When she bled for me.

My grip on the boards tightened—knuckles straining white—because the thought didn’t just excite me.

It fucking consumed me.

I took a slow breath, chest heaving.

Let’s see what you’re willing to bleed for, Iris.

I didn’t go home after practice.

Couldn’t.

The gym called to me—like a goddamn confessional booth for guys like me. A place to hurt. To bleed.

I slammed through the doors, the stale smell of sweat and metal hitting me in the face—familiar, grounding. Punishment waiting.

Good.

I set my sights on the weights, pushed everything else aside—or tried to.

But she was already there.

Iris.

Under my skin.

Behind my fucking eyes.

I gritted my teeth and dropped onto the bench, wrapping my hands tight around the barbell—knuckles white, wrists stiff—like I was choking something out. Like I wanted to choke it out of me.

Every push was a hit.

Every pull was a fight.

Metal clanged like fists against glass.

But it wasn’t working.

She was still fucking there. Pressed against the boards. Teeth bared. Breath hot against my jaw when she snapped at me.

I should’ve hated it. I did hate it.

But I fucking wanted it again. Harder this time. Longer.

I shoved the bar up, chest straining, arms trembling—but it wasn’t the weight making me shake.

It was her.

Those eyes.

That fucking mouth.

The way her body resisted mine—smaller, but fighting like hell.

I could still feel her—the shape of her hips twisting under my grip, the way her spine pressed against the glass when I pinned her.

Like she belonged there.

Under me.

Taking it.

She should’ve broken.

But she didn’t.

And it ruined me.

My father’s voice slithered in next—praise for her, for his perfect little prodigy. The player he wanted.

Not me.

Never fucking me.

I pressed the bar back into place with a loud clang; the sound slapping through the empty gym.

I sat up, breathing hard—like I’d just come out of a fight and lost.

Because I had.

I was losing to her, and she didn’t even know it.

I dragged my palms down my face, sweat slicking my skin—but it didn’t wash any of it away. She was still there.

Iris Evans—with her clean fucking ponytail and perfect fucking game—was haunting me.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want her out.

I wanted her pinned to the glass again, breathless, begging to keep up.

I wanted to see how far she’d go—how much she could take.

I wanted to see if she’d crawl back after.

Bruised, but still mine.

I pushed myself up from the bench, every muscle screaming—but not louder than the noise in my head.

I needed to work harder. Needed to hurt. Because I knew what this was becoming. And I didn’t want to stop it. I didn’t want to stop wanting her.

I gripped the bar again, breath sharp.

Let’s see what you can fucking take, Evans.

I stood in my small, temporary kitchen—shirtless, cold, and half-feral.

The night air leaked through the cracked window, biting at my skin, but I didn’t close it. I liked the sting.

Needed it.

A few empty beer bottles littered the counter—my only fucking teammates now.

I cracked open another, the hiss loud in the silence, the glass cool against my bruised knuckles.

They ached—dull and steady—from gripping my stick too hard during drills.

But I liked that, too.

Pain was better than feeling nothing.

And lately, nothing was all I had.

Except now?

Now there was her.

I took a swig of beer, the burn sliding down my throat, but it didn’t drown her out.

Eyes like fire.

Mouth sharp with defiance.

Body tight against mine—small, but unyielding—like she was daring me to crush her.

And fuck, I wanted to.

I glanced toward the corner of the room—toward the drawer.

The one where I stuffed my old Team USA jersey like a corpse I didn’t want to bury.

It was still there.

A fucking ghost.

A reminder of everything I gave—every ounce of blood, every cracked knuckle, every concussion—just to be tossed aside like a piece of worn-out gear.

But right now?

That jersey wasn’t what was eating me alive.

She was.

I leaned against the counter, bottle hovering at my lips, but I didn’t drink. I just stood there, knuckles flexing against glass, heartbeat loud in my ears. I was going to push her until she snapped.

I needed to.

I needed to see if she’d survive it—if she’d crawl back, bleeding, but still hungry.

Because if she did?

Then she was mine.

And if she liked it?

If she liked the fucking pain?

My lips curled into a grin—slow, dark, wrong.

Then I’d make sure she never fucking forgot who gave it to her.

I took another long pull from the bottle, the cold mixing with the heat building in my chest.

Let’s see what you’ve got, Evans.

Let’s see if you bleed for that jersey.

Or if you bleed for me.

If she was smart, she’d break early—save herself.

But if she didn’t?

That was when it would get fun.

That was when she’d really be mine.

I raised the bottle one last time, eyes fixed on the wall—but I wasn’t seeing the wall.

I was seeing her.

Flushed and breathless.

Sweat on her skin, eyes burning, lips parted—after I made her fight for every inch.

After I made her fucking beg for it.

Hate me.

Want me.

Didn’t matter.

As long as she couldn’t forget me.

I grinned against the bottle, tipping it back—feeling alive for the first time in too fucking long.

You’re mine now, Evans. You just don’t know it yet.