Page 7 of Shots & Echoes

My heart pounded against my ribs—not just from exertion, but from him.

From his fucking body crowding me.

From his mouth near my jaw when he leaned in, voice a growl.

“Too easy.”

I snapped.

I pushed back—not to escape, but to hit him. Shoulder into his chest. Teeth bared.

He laughed—deep, dark, like I’d given him exactly what he wanted.

He liked this.

Liked the fight.

Liked that I was pushing back, even though we both knew he was stronger.

That sick, twisted thrill shot through me again—the one that made me hate myself.

I hated losing.

But God, I liked fighting him.

He peeled away—fast, predatory—puck tucked against his blade like it belonged there.

I chased him.

Skates biting into the ice, heart pounding like a war drum, I went after him like he was the only thing that mattered.

Because right now, he was.

He glanced over his shoulder, that wild glimmer in his eyes—like he knew I was still there, still hungry.

Like he wanted me to be.

When he reached the net, he didn’t even need to shoot with force—just a flick of his wrist, effortless. The puck snapped into the goal like it was inevitable.

He turned to me, breathing hard, that smirk cutting across his face like a fucking victory flag.

Our eyes locked.

I was pissed.

I was buzzing.

I wasalive.

“Too slow,”he said, voice low, teasing—but there was something darker underneath.

A challenge.

I slowed, skates slicing across the ice, chest rising and falling like I’d run miles.

I met his stare.

I didn’t look away.

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