Page 47 of Shots & Echoes

My breath came rough, heavy. Iris was under my skin now—buried deep, in a way that felt more invasive than any hit I’d ever taken on the ice.

She pissed me off. Infuriated me.

And worse? She fucking excited me.

That defiance of hers—it stoked something dark inside me, something hungry. Every second I spent fighting her, every shove, every glare, only made me want to push harder.

To see how far she’d go before she shattered.

BeforeIdid.

I forced out a breath and paced along the edge of the rink, fists clenched, a storm brewing inside me that I had no way of controlling.

What was it about her? Why did she get under my skin like this?

Why did every second in her presence feel like balancing on a knife’s edge—one wrong move from cutting too deep?

She had no fucking clue about my past. About the wreckage I carried. She didn’t know how easy it would be for me to drag her down if she let me.

But that was the problem.

She wasn’t afraid to stand in the fire with me.

And worse?

I wanted to burn with her.

“Damn it,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair, my pulse refusing to settle.

The gym was silent now—just me, the ghosts of my past, and the weight of whatever the fuck was happening between us. And it wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 7

Iris

The next morning, I stepped onto the ice, the cold biting at my cheeks, but that didn't matter. I had to be here. The throbbing in my foot reminded me of yesterday’s hit—the puck slamming against bone and leaving me with a swollen mess stuffed into my skate. I’d wrapped it tight, but the pressure only heightened the pain.

With each push, I felt like I was dragging a weight behind me. My passes slipped wide, the puck not responding as it should have. I could hear Knox's voice echoing in my head, taunting me about wanting that jersey. The harder I tried, the more off-balance I became.

Get it together, Evans.

I gritted my teeth and focused on my edges, trying to carve deeper into the ice. It didn’t help. My blades skidded more than they sliced.

“Come on!” I shouted at myself, forcing out a breath as I pushed off again. My legs felt like lead, heavy and unyielding beneath me. Each misstep clawed at my insides like a slow bleed of failure.

I glanced over at Knox as he paced along the boards, his presence an electric pulse against my already frayed nerves. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched—like he could see every mistake before it happened.

“Evans!” His voice cut through the rink's echo.

The rest of the team shifted their attention toward me, some of them wearing expressions of concern mixed with pity.Great.Just what I needed.

“Focus up! You’re better than this!” Knox’s tone was sharp; it struck hard against the backdrop of my wavering confidence.

“Yeah? Easy for you to say,” I muttered under my breath while adjusting my grip on the stick.

Another pass went astray—this one clattering harmlessly off a teammate’s skate instead of gliding to her stick as intended. A wave of frustration washed over me; I stifled a groan that threatened to spill out.

I couldn’t let this be how they remembered me—not after everything I’d fought through to get here. The pain in my foot was just another hurdle to clear; it wouldn’t define me.

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