Page 62 of Shots & Echoes

With each passing moment in the locker room, my thoughts spiraled deeper into chaos. This wasn’t Chris; this was something entirely different. Chris was kind—gentle in ways that soothed the jagged edges of my life. He made me feel safelike I could breathe easy without fear of being crushed under expectations or judgment.

But Knox?

Knox was chaos wrapped in allure. He thrived on intensity and danger, igniting something inside me that felt both exhilarating and reckless. Part of me longed for that fire—to burn brightly in his presence despite knowing it could consume everything around us.

As I peeled off my sweaty jersey, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—a girl standing at the edge of two worlds. One held comfort and stability; the other beckoned with thrilling unpredictability. It left me breathless as I struggled to reconcile those feelings within myself.

I pulled on a fresh shirt, trying to ignore how alive he made me feel—or rather how alive I felt when he was near. And yet…there was no denying it; part of me wanted to burn alongside him.

My phone buzzed on the bench, jolting me from my spiraling thoughts. I glanced down to see Chris’s name lighting up the screen.

You okay? I get the feeling your coach doesn’t like me.

I stared at the message, my heart twisting. Did Knox dislike Chris? Or was it something deeper, something darker? I couldn’t pin it down, and that uncertainty gnawed at me.

I didn’t reply right away. I sat there, fingers hovering over the keyboard as confusion washed over me. Because I wasn’t okay—not really. Knox was in my head like a persistent echo, his presence looming larger than life.

His eyes, fierce and challenging; his body, warm against mine during drills—it all stirred something inside me that left no room for comfort or clarity.

Chris’s kindness felt safe, but it paled in comparison to the raw energy Knox unleashed every time he walked into the rink.

He’s just intense. Don’t worry about it.

I finally typed back, trying to mask the turmoil within me with a façade of nonchalance. The moment I hit send, I felt a pang of guilt twist my stomach. Why did I need to defend Knox? Why did I care how Chris perceived him?

A moment later, Chris responded.

I’m sure I could take him down in five seconds flat!

The lighthearted message made me smile—a real smile this time—one that chased away some of the weight pressing on my chest.

But it wasn’t enough; it didn’t reach the core of what had been stirred up during practice today.

It wasn’t the same smile Knox had ripped out of me when he pushed too hard, challenging every ounce of my will and resolve. That smile held danger and thrill—a reminder of what I craved yet feared all at once.

I took a deep breath and set my phone aside, knowing full well that I was teetering between two worlds—one safe and predictable with Chris, and another wild and reckless with Knox lingering just beneath the surface.

I finished changing and grabbed my bag, the weight of it pulling at my shoulder. I stepped into the hallway, the echo of my skates fading behind me as I made my way outside. Thewarmth of the late afternoon air hit me, sharp and invigorating, but it couldn’t mask the dull ache throbbing in my chest.

Every step toward my car felt like a reminder—an incessant pulse that mocked me with its intensity. I had been telling myself this was all about hockey, about earning that jersey, but the truth wrapped around me tighter than any bandage could manage.

Knox Callahan was everywhere.

His voice rang in my ears from practice:“Harder, Evans.”The way he pushed me—no, challenged me—felt like fire licking at my resolve. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. And now, as I walked through the parking lot, I couldn’t escape his shadow.

I reached my car and fumbled for my keys, still replaying moments from practice in my head—the way his body had pressed against mine during drills, how he’d stared at me with that intense gaze as if he wanted to peel back every layer and expose what lay beneath.

I shook my head as if trying to dislodge those thoughts. This wasn’t about Knox; it couldn’t be. Yet every time I convinced myself I was focused on hockey, there he was again—smirking or watching from across the rink like he owned every inch of space around him.

I leaned against my car, taking a moment to breathe deeply.

Get it together,I told myself.

But deep down, I knew it was too late for that.

The fire Knox ignited in me burned brighter than any goal or jersey ever could.

And no matter how hard I tried to outrun him—his presence haunted every step I took away from the rink.

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