Page 21 of Shots & Echoes

Hate me.

Want me.

Didn’t matter.

As long as she couldn’t forget me.

I grinned against the bottle, tipping it back—feeling alive for the first time in too fucking long.

You’re mine now, Evans. You just don’t know it yet.

Chapter 3

Iris

The kitchen smelled of sautéed garlic and something bubbling softly on the stove. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, the ache in my muscles creeping in after practice. My legs throbbed, each pulse a reminder of the relentless drills Knox had thrown us into. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the familiar sounds of home wash over me—the soft clinking of pots and pans, my dad humming to himself as he cooked.

I opened my eyes to see Coach Mike Evans moving about the kitchen with his usual grace. His hands moved deftly, chopping vegetables like he was orchestrating a play on the ice. The framed photo on the wall caught my eye—me at twelve, beaming with pride after making the Triple A Pee Wee Team. The only girl surrounded by boys twice my size. My dad had held me high that day, grinning like I’d just won gold.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught me staring.

“Long day?” he asked, a hint of amusement lighting up his tired features.

“Just practice,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice light even though frustration simmered beneath.

I shifted in my seat, eyeing the old USA Hockey jersey hanging by the door. Faded and worn but still held a kind of reverence in our house—a relic from Dad’s junior days that told stories of sweat and triumph. Just like everything else here—each piece a testament to sacrifice, discipline, and dreams both lived and lost.

The weight settled between us like an unspoken truth; Mom's absence lingered in every quiet moment at dinner. She used to bring laughter into these spaces, filling them with warmth and teasing banter that had faded since she left us.

Dad set the table with practiced ease, placing a steaming bowl of pasta in front of me. The aroma of garlic and herbs mingled with the rich scent of marinara sauce, making my stomach growl despite the tension coiling inside me. He ladled a generous portion onto my plate; the noodles glistening under the kitchen light, topped with fresh basil and a sprinkle of Parmesan that melted slightly from the heat.

“Dig in,” he said, sliding into his chair across from me.

I twirled a forkful of pasta, forcing myself to take a bite as he watched me expectantly.

“How’s conditioning?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Puck battles looking good?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Same as always.”

But Knox’s face invaded my thoughts—his smirk, that taunting voice daring me to fight harder. I didn’t want to talk about him.

“Don’t be modest,” Dad pressed, leaning forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You’ve got grit, Iris. I’ve seen you push through tougher practices than most.”

“Yeah,” I replied, picking at my food now. “It’s just… practice.”

He nodded but didn’t let it go.

“How’s Callahan working out with you girls? I heard he was sent to help with the off-ice training and conditioning.”

My stomach twisted like someone had yanked on a string inside me. Knox was already threading into this space—this sanctuary that used to feel so safe. His name hung in the air like smoke from an extinguished candle, tainting everything around it.

I swallowed hard and forced a laugh. “He’s just... there.”

Dad raised an eyebrow, his tone shifting to something almost reverent. “You know his history, right? Tough kid—made quite a name for himself before all that mess with the refs.” The admiration in Dad's voice twisted like barbed wire around my chest. He continued, unaware of how each word pierced deeper. “He fought hard for that jersey, earned every bruise along the way.”

Yeah, well, now he wanted to give me some bruises too.

I picked at my pasta again, feeling like a fish caught in a net—trapped between wanting to defend myself and hating that I even had to think about him at all in this moment.

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