Page 69 of Shots & Echoes

But then—she pushed off again.

Launching into another drill with the same relentless energy that made me want to test her. To push her further.

Damn it.

Something coiled tight in my chest, a mixture of need and frustration. Watching wasn’t enough anymore. I needed to be closer.

I stood.

Each step felt heavy with purpose as I crossed the rink, the cold air biting at my skin.

I didn’t call out to her right away.

She felt me coming.

I laced up my skates slowly, each tug of the laces grounding me, keeping my hands busy while my mind spiraled. I needed control. The ice always gave me that—sharp, clean, ruthless.

But tonight, control felt out of reach.

I stepped onto the rink, my breath sharp in the cold air. The untouched surface stretched out before me, a blank slate—except for her.

Focused. Fierce. Beautiful.

Mine.

The thought slammed into me, hard and unrelenting. Fucking dangerous.

I pushed off, gliding toward her, my strides long and slow. Measured. Deliberate. She didn’t hear me coming, too caught up in whatever war she was fighting inside her own head.

I didn’t call out.

Didn’t need to.

I reached her side and—without a word—placed my hand on her stick.

She froze.

A sharp inhale.

Then—she turned.

Wide, startled eyes locked onto mine, and I felt that familiar electricity snap between us. Unspoken, undeniable.

“Why him?” I asked, my voice low, quiet—just for her.

“What?” Her brows knitted together, pretending she didn’t know what I meant. Fucking liar.

I leaned in, closing the space between us, letting the silence stretch taut. “Langley.”

Her posture shifted—stiff, defensive—but I saw it.

The crack.

That tiny flicker of uncertainty beneath the fire in her gaze.

“You don’t want him.”

Her lips parted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Her grip tightened on her stick, knuckles white, like she needed something to hold onto.

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