Page 68 of Shots & Echoes

Fuck.

That look on her face—rage and challenge twisted into one perfect storm—hit me in a way I wasn’t ready for.

She was right there.

In my space. In my fucking head.

Mine.

“What the hell, Callahan?” she snapped, her breath coming hard, chest rising and falling too fast.

I stepped in closer—crowding her, pushing the moment, testing her limits.

Our chests almost touched, heat rolling off her like fire licking at my skin.

I felt her pulse in the air between us.

“Want this jersey, Evans?” My voice dropped, low and dark. Dangerous. “Then fucking fight for it.”

But we both knew I wasn’t just talking about hockey anymore.

The air snapped tight.

Iris’ gaze flickered—anger warring with something she didn’t want to name.

Then she shoved me.

Hard.

Enough to create space. Enough to make my blood fucking burn.

“I’m not scared of you,” she shot back, voice sharp, unyielding.

A slow smirk curled at my lips.

Good.

Because I didn’t want her scared.

I wanted her obsessed.

And judging by the way she was looking at me?

She already was.

Practice wrapped up,but Iris stayed.

Of course she did.

She glided across the ice like she owned it, each stroke of her blades cutting clean through the silence.

I pretended to focus on paperwork, tapping a pen against my desk, but my eyes were locked on her. Tracking her. Every stride, every pivot, every sharp turn—it was like she was working through something, pushing harder than anyone else had during practice. Like today wasn’t about getting better. Like today was personal.

I shifted in my seat, abandoning the bullshit pretense of writing up those player reports my father wanted and letting my attention drift fully to her.

She paused—wiped sweat from her brow—looked up.

For a second, I thought she’d catch me watching. That she’d see straight through me.

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