Page 9

We collided—Brooke and I—hips, elbows, steel blades cutting lines into the ice. The impact exploded through my shoulder, sending us both sprawling—arms tangled, breath ragged, gear scraping across the rink.

Laughter broke out from the other girls, sharp and grating in my ears, but it didn’t touch me. Because all I could feel was heat. Humiliation twisting in my chest like a knife.

And him.

Always him.

Knox stood off to the side—leaning on his stick, casual as hell—but his eyes were locked on me.

Watching every move. Every mistake. His face was unreadable, but I saw it—that flicker beneath the surface.

Satisfaction. Like this is exactly what he wanted.

Like this was what he came here for. To see me sweat.

To see me stumble. To see how far I’d go before I snapped.

I scrambled to my feet—fast—because I refused to look weak. Even though my chest was tight, and my heart was doing that fucked-up thing where it raced not from fear, but from want.

And I hated him for it.

I hated him for making me want him.

For making me want to fight him and kiss him in the same breath.

I shot him a glare meant to cut him in half. But he didn’t flinch. He never did. He just looked at me like he was already under my skin—like he knew I wouldn’t get him out. Like he liked it there.

“Let’s see some real fight, Evans,” he said, voice low and cool—like he knew exactly what I had left in me. Like he wanted to see it all.

Something cracked wide open in my chest. A frayed thread snapping under pressure. I didn’t think. Didn’t care. I just pushed off on my skates and charged back into the drill—faster, harder, reckless—because the only way to drown him out was to fight.

And maybe…

Maybe I didn’t want to drown him out at all. Maybe I wanted him to push me to the edge and see if I could survive it. If I could survive him.

Because deep down, I already knew?—

I was his match.

And he was mine.

Even if it killed me.

The air cracked around us—sharp, electric, like a storm about to break. Brooke and I squared off, sticks slashing, skates cutting lines into the ice like we were carving out a battlefield. This wasn’t hockey anymore. This was a war.

Laughter from the others blurred into nothing—just background noise, distant and useless—because the only thing I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. Fight. Hit back. Take what’s yours.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Brooke spat, eyes locked on mine, chin tipped up like she was daring me to swing.

My grip tightened around my stick until my knuckles screamed. I was shaking—but not from fear. From want. From heat. From the ache to go further.

“You want to find out?” The words snapped out of me, sharp as a blade.

Our gloves twitched—instinct—like we both knew what came next. Fists or sticks, it didn’t matter. We were ready to drop both.

Everything narrowed—just her and me—fury colliding with adrenaline, my chest heaving, heart racing like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, toes curling over. Ready to jump. Ready to fall.

Someone shouted from the boards—maybe Jenna, maybe Lila—but I didn’t hear what they said. Didn’t care.

My pulse was louder.

Fight her.

Prove it.

Prove you belong here.

I shifted forward, just about to close the distance—to throw, to take, to win?—

And then?—

A hand caught my arm. Strong. Rough. Pulling me back like a leash snapping tight.

Knox.

His body heat burned through my jersey, his grip iron on my bicep. Possessive. Commanding. Like he had the right to put his hands on me. And fuck me, I let him.

He leaned in—so close his breath skimmed over the side of my neck, hot and deliberate.

His voice was low—gravel wrapped in smoke—and aimed straight at my spine.

“Do it,” he murmured—dark, coaxing—like he was inviting me to destroy something.

To destroy myself. “Beat her ass. Lose control. You know you want to, princess.”

Princess.

The word coiled around my throat like a chokehold—mocking, filthy, his favorite fucking weapon. And it worked.

Heat surged through me—rage and arousal tangled so tight I couldn’t tell which was which. Didn’t know if I wanted to punch him or kiss him until it hurt.

Maybe both.

He knew. He fucking knew.

That I wanted the violence. That I needed it. That he was the only one who could drag it out of me like this.

His grip tightened—thumb pressing into muscle—holding me back, holding me still. But it didn’t feel like control. It felt like possession.

The girls were watching—I felt their eyes—uneasy, curious, like they sensed this was more than just practice. More than just a near-fight between teammates. This was something else. Something wrong. Something they weren’t invited into.

But I didn’t care about them. Not when he was this close. Not when my whole body was burning under his hand.

I turned my head slightly—just enough to see his face, to feel his breath on my lips now instead of my neck, even through the cage.

His eyes were already on me. Dark. Furious. Hungry. Daring me. Daring me to give in. To ruin myself. To give up everything I stood for. For him.

My chest heaved—lungs fighting for air—because I wanted it. The fight. The chaos. The goddamn wreckage.

I wanted him to push me into that wall, to see if I’d get up again. I wanted to see if he’d follow me down into the flames. If we’d burn together.

I was right on the edge. Right there. Ready to fall.

But I didn’t.

Barely.

I tore my arm free—ripped myself out of his grasp like it cost me something. Because it did.

I skated back—but my heart was still racing. My thighs were still trembling. My body was still screaming for more.

And Knox? He was still fucking watching. Like he’d already won. Like he was going to pull me back under the second I let him.

And I would. I fucking would.

Because the scariest part? I liked being his fight. And I knew—I was already losing.

Coach Callahan’s whistle cut through the rink like a gunshot—sharp, final—splitting the air and slicing straight through me. His voice followed, clipped and cold, each word a punch to the ribs, as his eyes found mine.

Not Brooke's.

Mine.

“We don’t lose control like that. You’re better than this.”

Better than this.

The disappointment hit harder than any check ever had. It wasn’t anger—it was worse. It was that low, steady tone. The voice he used when I’d let him down.

Heat flooded my face, crawling up my throat like fire, choking me. Humiliation blistered under my skin, spreading fast—faster than the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Faster than the ache in my foot.

I felt them. All of them. Teammates watching. Judging. Their eyes like knives—digging in, stripping me bare.

I gripped my stick so tight my fingers went numb, but it didn’t ground me. Nothing could. Because this wasn’t just a screw-up. This was failure.

I wasn’t just a player. I was his player. Callahan’s girl. The one with the future—the one he was betting everything on.

And I’d just shown them all I could crack. That I wasn’t perfect. That maybe I didn’t deserve that jersey.

Better than this.

Better than you, Iris.

But maybe you’re not.

The shame boiled into anger—hot, bitter—spiking in my chest like broken glass.

My gaze snapped to Knox. Because this was his fucking fault. The taunts. The pressure. The way he dragged me into this mess—made me reckless—made me want to prove something I shouldn’t have to.

He did it on purpose.

He wanted to ruin me.

But the second our eyes met—everything shifted.

I could still feel him.

The heat of his grip sinking into my skin, spreading out like a goddamn infection. Like my body was holding onto the memory, refusing to let it fade.

My pulse kicked up—but not from embarrassment now. From him. He was watching me—jaw tight, expression serious—but his eyes were darker. There was something behind them. Not just authority. Not just irritation.

Understanding.

Recognition.

Want.

Like he saw me losing it, and instead of pulling me away from the edge, he was right there with me—wanting to see if I’d jump. Or maybe wanting to jump with me.

I didn’t know which one I wanted more.

Time stretched—the sounds of the rink blurring, the eyes of my teammates fading—until it was just us.

Me and him. Breathing hard. Hearts racing.

Fingers still tingling from contact. A line drawn between us—thin as a thread, sharp as a blade—tugging me toward something dangerous.

Something I should walk away from. Something I knew I wouldn’t.

Because the truth was sinking in, settling into my bones—scaring the shit out of me. Knox Callahan wasn’t just getting under my skin. He was already there. And I liked it. Even if it ruined me.

“All right, listen up!” Coach Callahan’s voice cracked through the rink, cutting through the chatter and the sharp scrape of blades on ice.

We circled in, breath visible in the cold air, adrenaline thrumming just beneath the surface.

“You need to know exactly where your body is—relative to the puck, to your opponent. You hesitate? You flinch? You lose. Anticipate. Control the ice. Be the wall.”

His gaze cut across the group, eyes like stone. Then he gestured toward Knox. Standing just a few feet away—all raw power and reckless confidence, fingers curled around his stick like it was an extension of him. Like he’d break you with it and grin after.

My pulse kicked up—not from fear. From something worse. Something I didn’t want to name.

“Callahan will demonstrate a slapshot,” Coach continued. “Evans, you block it.” Flat. Simple.

Like he was asking us to stand in front of a bullet.

“Be the wall," he said. “Or you’ll regret it.”

I shifted on my skates, trying to shake the tension crawling up my spine, but my eyes stayed on Knox.

Bigger than life. Built like a wrecking ball.

That dangerous edge coiled tight around him like a second skin.

His eyes met mine for half a second—dark, daring—before he dropped his gaze to the puck.