Page 14 of Shots & Echoes

His project.

The player he wished he’d raised instead of me.

Sharp. Precise. Controlled.

Like she was carved straight from his blueprint.

But I’d seen something else under all that polish today.

A crack.

A spark.

When I slammed her into the boards, expecting her to crumble, she fucking shoved back. And it lit something inside me that I didn’t like.

Or maybe I liked it too much.

I gripped my stick tighter, skating faster—breathing harder—trying to lose that thought.

Because that spark?

That fight?

I wanted to drag it out of her. Again and again.

I wanted to push her until she broke.

Or until she proved she wouldn’t.

Until she showed me something real—something raw—something that wasn’t just my father’s dream wrapped up in a Crestwood jersey.

Something that was mine, that no one could touch, that no one could take away.

I circled the far end of the rink, the ice biting under my blades, the ache in my muscles nothing compared to the one in my chest.

I was alone—but it didn’t feel like solitude. It felt like punishment.

Because this place?

It reminded me of what I lost. Of why I didn’t belong here anymore. Why I didn’t belong anywhere.

And now she was here—Iris Evans, with her fucking fire and her sharp edges—and suddenly, it felt like I was back in the game.

Not for my dad.

Not for redemption.

For her.

To see if I could break her.

Or maybe just to see if she’d survive me.

I told myself I hated her for it.

The perfect little project.

The future.

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