Page 20 of Shots & Echoes

I glanced toward the corner of the room—toward the drawer.

The one where I stuffed my old Team USA jersey like a corpse I didn’t want to bury.

It was still there.

A fucking ghost.

A reminder of everything I gave—every ounce of blood, every cracked knuckle, every concussion—just to be tossed aside like a piece of worn-out gear.

But right now?

That jersey wasn’t what was eating me alive.

She was.

I leaned against the counter, bottle hovering at my lips, but I didn’t drink. I just stood there, knuckles flexing against glass, heartbeat loud in my ears. I was going to push her until she snapped.

I needed to.

I needed to see if she’d survive it—if she’d crawl back, bleeding, but still hungry.

Because if she did?

Then she was mine.

And if she liked it?

If she liked the fucking pain?

My lips curled into a grin—slow, dark, wrong.

Then I’d make sure she never fucking forgot who gave it to her.

I took another long pull from the bottle, the cold mixing with the heat building in my chest.

Let’s see what you’ve got, Evans.

Let’s see if you bleed for that jersey.

Or if you bleed for me.

If she was smart, she’d break early—save herself.

But if she didn’t?

That was when it would get fun.

That was when she’d really be mine.

I raised the bottle one last time, eyes fixed on the wall—but I wasn’t seeing the wall.

I was seeing her.

Flushed and breathless.

Sweat on her skin, eyes burning, lips parted—after I made her fight for every inch.

After I made her fucking beg for it.

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