Page 114 of Shots & Echoes

Fuck, again.

Was I really this pathetic?

Langley did this after every goddamn practice, and I reacted in exactly the same fucking way.

But I didn’t care.

He had no fucking right.

I pushed off the boards, moving toward them like I had a goddamn purpose—because I did and stepped off the ice.

“Evans, you got a minute?”

My voice came out level, but beneath it? Fire.

Langley stiffened beside her, his easy demeanor faltering just enough for me to catch. But I didn’t look at him. He didn’t fucking matter.

Iris turned toward me, her eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe wariness. But she knew what this was.

It had always been personal with her.

I didn’t wait for her to answer.

I turned and walked.

Because I knew she’d follow.

She always did.

I pulled her into the equipment room, shutting the door behind us with a finality that swallowed the outside world whole. The dim light cast shadows over the metal shelves lining thewalls, the air thick with sweat, tape, and something darker—something that had nothing to do with hockey.

I moved toward her, slow and deliberate, backing her into the shelves until there was nowhere left to go. Close. Not touching. But fuck, she could feel me there.

“You’re still talking to him?” My voice came out rough, edged with something possessive. A threat. A warning.

Iris lifted her chin, defiance flickering in those sharp green eyes. Fighting me, always fighting me.

“I can talk to whoever I want.” Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor in her breath—the crack in her armor.

My jaw flexed, lips curling into a smirk because she was lying, and we both fucking knew it.

I leaned in, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear. Not touching, but touching.

“Yeah? Then why were you squeezing your thighs together every time I looked at you out there?”

Her breath hitched. Sharp. Betraying her in an instant.

I felt the moment she realized she was caught—her body tensed, her fingers curling into fists at her sides like she was trying to fight the truth. But it was too late. I already had her.

I pulled back just enough to see her face, drinking in the way her expression flickered between anger and something hotter, needier. But before she could find her footing again, I locked us in place with the next blow.

“I don’t want you near him.”

No more teasing. No more games.

My voice was low, serious, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument.

“I mean it, Evans.”

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