Page 38 of Shots & Echoes

It felt like surrender.

I froze—pride warring with the throbbing in my foot—before I gave in and took his support. Hating myself the second I did.

My body leaned into his warmth, but it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel likehim.

“Let’s get some ice on that," Chris asked. "You need tape? Got plenty in my bag.”

Helpful.

Sweet.

Every word poked at the raw wound in my pride—reminding me that I needed help. That I wasn’t untouchable. That I was breakable after all.

I wasn’t Knox. I wasn’t unshakable. I was just the girl limping off the ice, holding onto the backup goalie like a damsel in distress.

I lowered myself onto the bench outside the glass, forcing my breathing to even out as I propped my leg up on the wooden bench. I took my skate off, peeling down my sock, and pulling offmy shinguard. The angry swell of my foot was already starting to show—red and tight around the bone.

Fuck.

Chris knelt in front of me, taping supplies already in hand, moving with a kind of easy confidence that made it clear he’d done this before. Backup goalie, sure—but he knew what he was doing.

I was supposed to be grateful. I was supposed to let this be enough. Focus on him.

Not Knox. Not the heat still crawling under your skin from his grip. Not the way he made you feel like you belonged to him—for those few seconds on the ice.

Chris’s hands were steady as he wrapped the tape around my foot, fingers brushing over my skin—light, careful. Gentle. The kind of touch that was supposed to feel good. Safe.

“This might feel a little tight,” he said, eyes flicking up to mine. His voice was warm, smooth—not like Knox’s rough scrape of gravel.

This was easy.

This was good.

I nodded, offering a tight smile, even though my chest still felt heavy.

This is what you’re supposed to want. A guy who looks at you like you’re worth protecting—not like you’re a fight waiting to happen.

But as he pressed the tape down, securing the wrap, his thumb sweeping over the top of my foot to smooth it out, all I felt was…

Nothing.

I forced a small laugh when he made a joke about goalies having more tape than talent, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was easy—like he wanted to put me at ease. Like he was trying.

And I smiled—because I was supposed to. Because it was the right response. Because he was being good to me, and I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t appreciate that.

But under the surface, I was still burning. Because it wasn’t his voice I wanted low in my ear. It wasn’t his hands I wanted pressing into me—demanding, rough, sure.

And that made me hate myself just a little.

Chris finished securing the last strip of tape around my foot, his thumb brushing lightly over the arch as he pressed it into place. Careful. Patient. Like he actually cared. “There. Should hold you together,” he said, giving a small grin—the kind meant to put me at ease.

I smiled back—but as much as I wanted it to feel like enough; it didn’t stop the dull ache low in my stomach—the kind that had nothing to do with my foot.

“Stay here. I’ll grab you some ice,” Chris said, standing up.

I nodded, exhaling slowly as he jogged toward the cooler tucked in the corner of the rink, the buzz of the men’s team’s practice filling the background.

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