Page 66

Knox

I sat in the stands, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched, a shadow among the crowd. I shouldn’t have come. I told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t. That I couldn’t.

But here I was, watching her skate under the bright lights, heart hammering like I was the one on the ice.

She looked unstoppable.

Fast. Sharp. Fucking lethal. She moved like she owned the rink, every shift of her body precise, controlled. And that jersey—the Team USA crest stretched across her chest—had never looked better on anyone.

Pride surged through me, so fierce it almost brought me to my knees. She made it. And yet, the ache beneath it was just as sharp, carving through my ribs like a blade.

She had made it without me.

I gripped the railing in front of me, knuckles white, trying to anchor myself against the storm raging inside.

I should have been down there with her. Should have been the one pushing her harder, coaching her through every play, reminding her what she was capable of.

Instead, I was just another spectator. A ghost in the stands, watching from the fucking sidelines while she shined.

The fire in her eyes—God, I knew that fire. I had spent months stoking it, testing it, watching it burn brighter every time I pushed her beyond her limits. But now, it wasn’t me she was proving herself to.

Each time she drove the puck up the ice, each time she battled for position and won, it felt like a hit to the gut. Because I knew her. I knew that fire wasn’t just for the game. It was for me.

This wasn’t just about hockey.

A sharp whistle cut through the air as the period ended, and the players skated toward the bench. My chest was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—pride, regret, longing.

I could get up. I could leave before she ever knew I was here. But I didn’t.

Because no matter how badly I had convinced myself she was better off without me, I still couldn’t look away.

Not from her.

Not from the girl who once looked at me like I was her whole world.

Not from the girl who had become mine.

I saw it the second she snapped.

The shift in her posture, the way her shoulders squared, the fire that flashed in her eyes like a warning before the explosion.

They had been chirping at her all game—cheap little jabs meant to get under her skin. It was typical shit, the kind you expect at this level. But then one of those Canadian players went too far.

“…got down on your knees for a creep like Callahan.”

I went still.

“He's a disgrace to the jersey… to the fucking game. Thank God he's not Canadian.”

The words landed like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs.

My grip on the railing tightened so hard my knuckles cracked.

The anger was instant, searing through my veins like wildfire.

But before I could even process it—before I could even fucking blink—Iris was already dropping the gloves.

She launched at the girl who had spat my name like it was something filthy. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure, reckless fury.

The crowd roared as they crashed to the ice, skates scraping violently against the surface.

Fists flew, gloved hands yanking at jerseys, bodies twisting in a tangled storm of aggression.

Iris fought like she belonged there, like the fire inside her had been waiting for an excuse to burn everything in its path.

And fuck if it didn’t make my heart pound like a goddamn war drum.

I should have been worried. I should have been rational, thinking about what this would mean for her standing, her career, her place on that team. But none of that mattered in the moment. All I saw was her.

Fierce. Unrelenting. Mine.

My pulse roared in my ears as I watched her fight for me. Because that’s what this was. Not just a brawl for the sake of the game. This was a battle for something deeper, something personal. She wasn’t just defending herself—she was defending us.

By the time the refs finally pulled them apart, my chest was so tight I could barely breathe. Iris wiped at her split lip, barely even flinching as they dragged her to the penalty box.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her busted mouth, her eyes blazing with something wild and unrepentant. Like she knew exactly what she’d just done to me.

Jesus Christ.

I was so fucking gone for this girl.

I didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

I shoved past security, barely registering their protests, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears.

The Team USA locker room loomed ahead, and I stormed through the doors like a man possessed.

At this point, they must have decided to eject her from the game because she was no longer sitting in the box.

Players snapped their heads toward me—some whispering, others frozen in shock. I didn’t give a fuck.

She was there.

Sitting on the bench, fists bloodied, chest rising and falling like she was still in the middle of that fight. Her lip was split, bruises already blooming across her skin like war paint. And even like this—especially like this—she was the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen.

Anger and pride crashed through me in equal measure, an unbearable mix of fuck yeah and what the hell were you thinking?

“What the fuck was that, Evans?”

My voice sliced through the room, a razor-sharp demand that left no room for bullshit. I crossed the space between us in a few strides, blocking out everything and everyone that wasn’t her.

She lifted her gaze to mine, something defiant and dangerous flickering behind those fire-lit eyes.

“I’m not going to let them talk about you like that.”

Her voice was steady, no hesitation, no regret. Like this was a decision—a battle she walked into willingly. And that only made it worse.

“You worked your whole life for this,” I ground out, chest tight with frustration. “And you throw it away over some chirping?”

She wiped the blood from her knuckles, slow and deliberate, like she didn’t give a shit that she was sitting here bruised and bleeding.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” she said, voice calm but unshakable. “I’m standing up for what’s right.”

And fuck—fuck—that was why I loved her. Why I was so far gone for her I couldn’t see straight.

I stepped in closer, so close that her breath tangled with mine, thick and electric in the charged air between us. My hands ached to grab her, to shake some sense into her, to kiss her until she understood what she meant to me.

But all I could do was look at her—this woman who would burn down the whole goddamn world for me—and feel the terrifying truth settle in my bones.

I would never be able to let her go.

She stood there—pissed, proud, fucking radiant.

That fire in her eyes burned brighter than the fluorescents buzzing overhead, a wildfire that refused to be snuffed out. But beneath it—beneath the bruises and defiance—I saw it. Relief. Barely there, but flickering like a candle in a storm.

Because I came. Because I was here.

“Someone taught me some things are worth fighting for.”

Her words sliced through me, clean and precise, a blade to the ribs. I went still, my breath catching in my throat as they sank deep.

That was it. That was everything.

Her.

I felt the walls I had spent years stacking around myself begin to crumble—brick by fucking brick. Walls built to keep people out, to keep me safe, to keep me from ever feeling the way I felt right now.

But it was useless.

She had already torn through them without even trying.

Love had always felt like a goddamn liability. Something weak. Something dangerous. But standing here, staring at her—bruised and battered and still fucking standing—it didn’t feel weak. It felt like the strongest thing in the world.

I watched as she flexed her fingers, knuckles raw, wiping away the blood from every fight that came before this one. Not just the one against Team Canada, but the ones against the world. The whispers. The doubts. The expectations.

And I had the audacity to think I could ever let her go?

I stepped in, my voice dropping—low, rough, wrecked. “I tried to protect you…” I forced the words out, every syllable scraping my throat raw. “I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be free. You'd get what you've been working so hard for. What you always wanted."

It sounded weak the second it left my mouth. A flimsy excuse for all the damage I’d done. I had convinced myself that keeping my distance was the only way to save her, that shoving her into the safe little box of ‘just a player’ would shield her from the wreckage that was my life.

But the truth was brutal in its simplicity: It was never about the game.

It was her.

It was always her.

Iris stepped closer, eyes glassy but still burning. Fierce. Unshakable. Like she saw straight through every excuse, every fear, every desperate attempt I had made to convince myself that walking away had been the right choice.

“I didn’t want to be free,” she said, voice steady, each word a direct hit. A challenge. A demand. A fucking truth. “I wanted you.”

Something snapped inside me.

Every carefully laid plan, every rule I’d told myself we had to follow—obliterated.

My pulse hammered as I exhaled, letting go of every last piece of guilt that had chained me down. Letting her in.

“I love you, Evans.” The confession bled out of me like a wound torn open—unfiltered, helpless, absolute. “I tried to stop, but I can’t.” I held her gaze, refusing to let this moment slip through my fingers. “And I don’t want to.”

She took another step closer until the space between us was nothing but heat and breath and everything we had fought so damn hard against.

And then she whispered it back—soft, certain, unshakable. “I love you too.”

It wasn’t some grand declaration. No rehearsed speech, no perfect timing. It just came out, raw and unfiltered, the truth ripping free before I could stop it.

I love you.

The words hit the air like a live wire—charged, dangerous, impossible to take back.