Page 36 of Shots & Echoes

We circled in, breath visible in the cold air, adrenaline thrumming just beneath the surface.

“You need to know exactly where your body is—relative to the puck, to your opponent. You hesitate? You flinch? You lose. Anticipate. Control the ice. Be the wall.”

His gaze cut across the group, eyes like stone. Then he gestured toward Knox. Standing just a few feet away—all raw power and reckless confidence, fingers curled around his stick like it was an extension of him. Like he’d break you with it and grin after.

My pulse kicked up—not from fear. From something worse. Something I didn’t want to name.

“Callahan will demonstrate a slapshot,” Coach continued. “Evans, you block it.” Flat. Simple.

Like he was asking us to stand in front of a bullet.

“Be the wall," he said. “Or you’ll regret it.”

I shifted on my skates, trying to shake the tension crawling up my spine, but my eyes stayed on Knox. Bigger than life. Built like a wrecking ball. That dangerous edge coiled tight around him like a second skin. His eyes met mine for half a second—dark, daring—before he dropped his gaze to the puck.

All business.

But we both knew better.

This was personal.

It always was.

“Ready?” Coach’s voice rang out.

Knox shifted into position—stick gripped tight, shoulders tense, body wound like a spring. Predator. Locked in. Waiting to strike.

I stepped into the line of fire—heart racing, every nerve screaming that this was a bad fucking idea.

But I wasn’t moving.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

The crack of his stick echoed like a gunshot.

The puck shot forward—fast, brutal, meant to break something.

Me.

I barely had time to breathe before it connected—right into my skate. Impact like fire—sharp, searing—vibrating up through my ankle, my knee, into my chest.

It took everything not to buckle. Everything not to fucking scream.

The sting was immediate, radiating heat and pain, but worse was the sound—the laughter. Some girls chuckling, not cruel, but loud enough to sting. Like I was just another rookie eating shit. Some of the guys from the men's team standing outside the rink, waiting for their practice to start, laughed too.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. I wouldn’t give them that. I wouldn’t givehimthat.

I forced myself to straighten—to plant both skates firm even though my foot throbbed like hell beneath me.Face blank. Mask on. This is nothing.Even as tears fogged my vision. I would not cry.

But I felt him.

His eyes burned into me—watching. Assessing. That fucking smirk threatening to break across his face like he was proud of me for taking the hit. Or maybe just proud that he left a mark.

It twisted something in me—humiliation tangled with heat. Because I liked that he was looking.

I hated that I liked it.

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