Page 37 of Shots & Echoes

I held his gaze for a second longer than I should have—daring him to see that I wasn’t breaking. Not today. Not because of him.

But I saw it. That flicker in his eyes. Respect? Or possession?

I didn’t know which was worse.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I skated back into line—foot screaming with every glide—but my face didn’t flinch.

I couldn’t let them see it.

I couldn’t let him see it.

But deep down, I knew.

He already had.

And he liked what he saw.

“Fuck, Knox, did you need to shoot it like you’re playing a league game? Jesus.” I barely heard Callahan rip into him. “Evans—off the ice. Get that checked.” His voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the haze of pain and adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. Firm. Final. But there was concern laced beneath it.

That made it worse.

It stung.

I wanted to fight it—to stay, to push through, to prove I was tougher than this. But his eyes held me there—steady, knowing—like he was already making the decision for me.

Failure wrapped around me like a chokehold—tight and suffocating—sinking into my skin as I forced a nod.

I pushed off toward the bench—each stride sending spikes of pain through my ankle, radiating up my calf. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, grinding my teeth against the limp threatening to creep in. Pride held me up when my body wanted to buckle.

Don’t let them see.

Don’t let him see.

Especially not him.

But as I neared the bench, I saw them—the men’s team spilling out of the locker room, waiting for their practice. Loud. Easy. Full of energy. Like they belonged here more than I ever would.

“You good, Evans?”

I turned.

Chris Langley. Backup goalie. Nice. Safe. The kind of guy you’re supposed to want. The kind of guy your dad would like.Good looking in a boy-next-door kind of way. Easy. He made everyone comfortable.

He spotted me immediately—that easy grin fading into concern the second he saw the way I favored my foot.

Shit.

His voice was soft, genuine. But it grated against my nerves like sandpaper. And I didn't understand why.

I plastered on a smile—fake as hell but tight enough I hoped it passed. “I’m fine.” Too quick. Too defensive.

He knew it was a lie.

Chris stepped in closer—offering his arm like some white knight—steady, ready to carry me if I needed it.

A lifeline.

But it didn’t feel like saving.

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