Page 53 of Shots & Echoes

Instead, all I could think about was pushing her against the wall. Seeing just how much she could take.

She had that spark—that raw, untamed defiance—and I wanted to watch it flicker and burn. Wanted to see her come apart beneath the weight of all that fuckingwant.

But that scared the hell out of me, too.

Because she belonged on the ice. Focused. Fierce. Untouchable. Not tangled up in this mess, in me.

And yet—every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was her.

Flushed from exertion.

Flushed from anger.

Flushed from something deeper than either of us wanted to admit.

And God help me—I wanted to be the one to shatter that perfect armor she wore.

I couldn’t keep doing this.

This would ruin everything I’d fought for.

Yet here I was, pacing like a fucking idiot, with Iris Evans wrapped around my goddamn mind like a noose.

I paced the office, each step heavier than the last, my jaw clenched so tight I could feel the pressure in my skull.

This was about protecting her.

That was the excuse I clung to, the one I kept feeding myself like a fucking lie I hoped would eventually settle.

She needed to focus. To stay locked in on the game. Not get caught up in whatever bullshit Langley was selling her.

He’s a distraction.

I repeated the words in my head, tried to let them bury the other thoughts clawing at me, but they didn’t take. Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about hockey, either.

And deep down, I knew it.

That truth gnawed at me like an unhealed wound, festering beneath the surface. She was already playing hurt. Her foot still swollen, her body still bruised from taking my slapshot like a goddamn warrior. And here she was—giving her smile, her attention, her fucking laugh to someone else.

A guy who didn’t have a clue what she’d sacrificed to get here.

Didn’t deserve to know.

The thought of it made something inside me snap. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms, a slow, controlled burn turning into a wildfire. That laugh should’ve been mine. That easy fucking grin—mine.

Not his.

Not some safe, nice guy who wouldn’t push her the way she needed.

Who wouldn’t push her the way I did.

I exhaled hard, raking a hand through my hair, fighting the way my pulse spiked just thinking about it.

She needed to focus, that should’ve been enough to make me let this go—to step back and let her have her space.

But it wasn’t.

Because it was never just about protecting her. It never had been.

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