Page 18 of Shots & Echoes

I set my sights on the weights, pushed everything else aside—or tried to.

But she was already there.

Iris.

Under my skin.

Behind my fucking eyes.

I gritted my teeth and dropped onto the bench, wrapping my hands tight around the barbell—knuckles white, wrists stiff—like I was choking something out. Like I wanted to choke it out of me.

Every push was a hit.

Every pull was a fight.

Metal clanged like fists against glass.

But it wasn’t working.

She was still fucking there. Pressed against the boards. Teeth bared. Breath hot against my jaw when she snapped at me.

I should’ve hated it. I did hate it.

But I fucking wanted it again. Harder this time. Longer.

I shoved the bar up, chest straining, arms trembling—but it wasn’t the weight making me shake.

It was her.

Those eyes.

That fucking mouth.

The way her body resisted mine—smaller, but fighting like hell.

I could still feel her—the shape of her hips twisting under my grip, the way her spine pressed against the glass when I pinned her.

Like she belonged there.

Under me.

Taking it.

She should’ve broken.

But she didn’t.

And it ruined me.

My father’s voice slithered in next—praise for her, for his perfect little prodigy. The player he wanted.

Not me.

Never fucking me.

I pressed the bar back into place with a loud clang; the sound slapping through the empty gym.

I sat up, breathing hard—like I’d just come out of a fight and lost.

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