Page 46

Knox

I arrived at the rink before dawn, the cold slicing through my jacket, sharp and relentless. The air smelled like ice, sweat, and something darker—anticipation curling in my gut like a predator waiting to pounce.

Iris was already on the ice. Of course she was.

She moved like she was built for this—every stride powerful, every pivot calculated.

Precision and fire, wrapped in muscle and instinct.

She didn’t skate to impress; she skated to dominate.

And fuck if it didn’t do something to me, watching her take control of the ice like she owned every inch of it.

But then I saw him.

Chambers.

Leaning against the boards like he belonged there, like he had some fucking right to be anywhere near her.

He chatted with Coach Callahan, his posture too casual, too comfortable.

And then his eyes flicked to Iris, tracking her movements, assessing her.

Like she was a goddamn prospect. Like she wasn’t already mine.

A slow, simmering rage unfurled in my chest.

I clenched my jaw, fingers twitching at my sides. He didn’t know. He didn’t have a fucking clue what Iris had become to me—the way she unraveled under my hands, the way she pushed back, fierce and unbreakable. She wasn’t just another player, another name on some scout’s list.

She was mine.

“Keep your fucking eyes off my girl,” I muttered, too low for anyone to hear, but the words tasted like a promise.

Iris fired off a shot, the puck slicing clean through the air and slamming into the net with a precision that sent a dark thrill down my spine. That’s my girl. She didn’t need Chambers’ approval, didn’t need anyone’s fucking validation.

But then he leaned in toward Coach Callahan, whispering something, and I felt it in my bones—that slick, calculated kind of talk. The kind that meant he was planning something.

I took a step forward before I even realized it, my pulse a war drum in my ears. Not today. Not ever.

I forced myself to stop, to stay in the shadows a second longer. Because today? Today wasn’t about losing control.

Today was about making sure everyone knew exactly who mattered on this ice.

It felt like a knife between the ribs when Chambers looked at me. Not just suspicion—confirmation.

That fucker didn’t need proof. He just needed a gut feeling, a flicker of doubt, a reason to dig deeper. And that look? It told me he had one.

He gave me a nod—friendly on the surface, but I wasn’t stupid. It was a loaded gun with the safety off. I forced myself to nod back, my stomach coiling tight. I knew that look. It was the same one I’d given guys before a hit—calculating, patient, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Iris skated past, sharp and locked in, but even from here, I saw it—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath came faster the second Chambers walked into the rink.

She didn’t realize it yet, but everything mattered now.

Every glance, every movement, every second she spent unaware of the shark circling us was another second closer to disaster.

“Stay focused,” I muttered, just loud enough that maybe—just maybe—she’d hear me. She didn’t react, but I saw it. The slightest hitch in her stride.

She was already slipping, and she didn’t even know it.

The ice felt thinner beneath my skates, as if everything beneath me was starting to crack. Chambers was watching, waiting. If he caught even a hint of something out of place, it was over. Not just for me, but for her.

Fucking breathe.

“Let’s run drills!” Coach Callahan’s voice sliced through the tension, pulling the team back into focus. But it did nothing to shake the weight pressing down on my chest.

I skated out, forcing myself into motion, trying to drown out the static in my head. The puck dropped, and my focus snapped to Iris—her speed, her precision, her fire. She cut through the ice like she owned it, pushing harder, faster. But my gut still twisted because I knew the truth.

Chambers was still watching.

And every time his eyes tracked her movements with that same measured, waiting expression, something dark clawed its way up my throat. Mine.

So I pushed her harder. I needed her to be sharper, faster—untouchable.

Because we weren’t just training anymore. We were on the edge of a fucking cliff.

And one wrong step would send us both crashing down.

The drills were brutal—exactly how I wanted them. Every stride, every impact against the boards, every sharp breath sucked in between gritted teeth—it all fed into the control I needed. The control I refused to lose.

I stood at the edge of the rink, arms crossed, voice sharp and cutting as I pushed them harder. Pushed her harder.

“Harder, Evans! Get your head up!”

She didn’t flinch. She never fucking did. But I saw it—the flicker of defiance, the way her body tensed like she knew I was watching. Like she felt it too.

The moment she stopped looking at me like I was just her coach? That was the moment we were both screwed.

“Again! Back to the line!” My voice echoed across the ice, sharp and relentless.

They obeyed, bodies colliding, skates cutting into the surface with violent precision.

This—right here—was where I controlled the chaos.

Every drill, every order barked was a grip around my throat loosening, keeping the fire in my blood contained.

But then she laughed.

The sound cut through the cold like a blade, and my attention snapped to her.

Iris glided over to Brooke, her breath still heavy from the drill, her cheeks flushed. But that wasn’t what got to me. It was the way she smiled. The way something light and free slipped past her guard, like I wasn’t still standing here, still inside her head.

I drifted closer, barely realizing I was moving at all—a hunter tracking the shift in the air.

Then I heard it.

“So… you and Langley, huh?” Brooke teased.

My jaw locked. What?

Iris shrugged, casual—too casual. But she didn’t answer right away. Because there was nothing to answer.

“Saw that mark on your neck… boy’s getting confident,” Brooke added with a grin.

A mark? A slow, dark fire ignited in my chest.

My mark.

Mine.

I knew exactly where it was—the deep bruise at the base of her throat, where my teeth had pressed against her skin last night, branding her even as she gasped my name.

But hearing someone else mention it? Like it belonged to someone else?

A growl curled in my throat before I could stop it.

The laughter, the teasing, the fucking assumption that she was up for grabs?—

They didn’t know. No one did. No one had any idea what we’d done. How far we’d gone. How I’d already claimed her in ways no one else ever would.

And yet, standing there, hearing my mark mistaken for Langley’s? It burned hotter than any drill, hotter than any game, hotter than the consequences I should have been thinking about.

This wasn’t a trophy for Langley to fucking win.

This was a war.

And I wasn’t losing.

Iris froze—just for a second. Too long.

I caught it. Brooke caught it. And in that moment, something inside me snapped, a warning siren blaring through my skull.

“Unless…” Brooke smirked, leaning in like a shark scenting blood. “You got someone else keeping you warm?”

Iris laughed, but it was wrong—tight, forced. I knew her too well to miss the tension creeping into her shoulders, the way her eyes darted away, desperate for an escape.

But Brooke wasn’t stupid. She could smell bullshit from a mile away. And girls talked. One wrong word, one careless whisper, and this whole thing would fucking explode.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I imagined it unraveling—whispers in the locker room, questions hanging in the air like a noose. If anyone figured us out, if the wrong person caught wind of what we’d done, it wouldn’t just cost Iris her shot at Team USA. It would cost me everything.

She shrugged again, not saying anything. Not trusting herself.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. She was lying. Covering. But not well enough.

Brooke’s eyes narrowed, laser-focused on the cracks forming right in front of her. “So then what’s with all those late-night practices with Callahan? You sure he isn’t giving you more than just coaching advice?”

The air in the rink fucking vanished.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides as tension coiled in my gut, hot and suffocating. The way she said my name like that—so goddamn casual—sent a slow, burning fury through me.

I didn’t even think before I snapped.

“Just focus on your own game.” My voice came out sharp, clipped, a little too defensive. Too obvious.

Both girls turned toward me. Fuck.

Iris’s eyes locked onto mine, wide with something that looked like both embarrassment and anger. Brooke’s smirk only deepened, like she’d just cracked open a mystery she hadn’t even meant to solve.

“What’s got you so riled up?” she teased, head tilting, voice laced with amusement. "It was just a joke."

I clenched my teeth. Fucking hell.

“Even jokes have consequences, Wittaker,” I bit out, every muscle in my body wound tight enough to snap.

But Iris knew better. She knew me.

Her gaze flickered between us, calculating, like she was trying to figure out just how much longer this game could go on before someone got burned.

I ran them into the ground. Not just Iris—everyone.

Drills were brutal, relentless, a storm of exhaustion and grit.

My whistle cut through the rink like a goddamn whip, sharp enough to slice through the tension coiling in my chest. I needed this.

Needed the control. The discipline. The punishing rhythm of laps and sprints and drills that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with me trying to outrun my own goddamn thoughts.

“Faster! Push it!” My voice echoed off the boards, rough and merciless. They obeyed—they always did. Skates carved into the ice, breaths came sharp and ragged, muscles strained to keep up with my demands. Good. If I couldn’t get my head straight, then at least I could burn the chaos out of them.