Page 16 of Shots & Echoes

Not even the Team USA jersey.

Mine.

Evans.

Didn’t fucking matter—so long as everyone knew she was mine.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut—twisting, ugly, possessive.

And it pissed me off.

She was a kid.

College player.

Too young.

Too fucking bright.

But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was her—sharp and fast, hair whipping behind her, that Crestwood logo stretched across her chest like she was born to wear it.

And in my head, I stripped it away. Replaced it with my name.

Knox fucking Callahan.

The weight of it lodged in my throat—a bitter pill I couldn’t swallow.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I gritted my teeth, pacing along the edge of the rink. I told myself it was the fight in her—the grit. The way she shoved backwhen I slammed her into the boards like she wanted more. The way she met me, breathless and furious, and didn’t flinch.

That was what I wanted.

The fire.

The fucking hunger.

But that was another lie.

Because it wasn’t just about her fight.

It was about marking her. About making sure when people looked at her, they saw me. Felt me under her skin.

Mine.

On the ice.

Off the ice.

Everywhere.

I hated myself for it.

But fuck, it was there—burning low in my gut like something I couldn’t cut out.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, trying to shake it off. But every flick of her wrist, every carve of her skates against the ice, was digging her in deeper—like a splinter I couldn’t reach.

An itch that was becoming a wound.

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