Page 65 of Shots & Echoes

Then—there she was.

Iris.

She stepped out of the locker room hallway last, head high, shoulders back—like she didn’t have a single goddamn clue how badly I wanted to rip that confidence right out of her. Like she wasn’t the reason I’d spent the entire night awake, simmering in frustration.

She moved effortlessly, every step fluid, powerful.

Fucking lethal.

She moved toward the group, eyes focused ahead, and for a moment—I couldn’t fucking breathe. She wasn’t just good. She was something else entirely.

Every time she stepped onto this ice, it felt like a challenge. She wasn’t just fighting for a spot on Team USA?—

She was pushing against me.

Testing me.

Challenging me.

The other players settled in, throwing playful jabs, knocking sticks, the usual pre-practice routine.

And then—Langley.

Chris fucking Langley.

Too close.

Too damn comfortable at her side as she made her way toward the group.

Her gaze flicked toward mine—quick, unreadable.

Then back to him.

And she smiled.

My grip tightened around my stick, the wood groaning under the pressure.

A slow, seething heat burned through me, curling hot and violent in my gut. She was doing this on purpose. Fucking testing me.

This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. This was about ownership. About control. About making her want me more than anyone else—more than him.

If she wanted to play this game, fine.

If she thought she could push me, tease me, make me fucking burn?—

She had no clue what she was inviting in.

I pushed off hard, cutting across the ice with purpose, my body wired with determination, frustration—something darker.

Today would be different.

Today, I’d make sure she knew exactly who held the reins.

My whistle cut through the noise like a goddamn blade.

“All right, listen up!” My voice boomed, bouncing off the walls of the rink. Sharp. Commanding. Unapologetic.

Every player snapped to attention.

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