Page 76 of Shots & Echoes

But as I stepped back, I kept the movement gentle. No rejection, just a quiet distance that felt safer. Chris didn’t press it; he respected the space between us.

Yet, deep down, I knew it was a lie—a thin veneer over something darker. I could feel it coiling around me like smoke; there was an undeniable truth simmering beneath our surface smiles and easy banter.

It was never going to be him.

As I turned to walk away from the café, my chest tightened. Each step felt heavier than the last, like gravity had taken on a new weight. The realization hit me hard: Knox had my attention, had carved out space in my mind where Chris couldn’t reach.

I paused outside the door and took a breath of fresh air. The sun hung high in the sky, illuminating everything around me with its golden glow—but all I could see was Knox’s intense gaze from practice yesterday.

It felt like he owned that look now, wrapped it around me like an invisible thread. Every moment with him twisted my insides into knots—an exhilarating mix of thrill and dread that left me breathless.

Knox had me tangled up inside, and part of me craved it more than I wanted to admit. Each time we clashed on the ice, every heated exchange between us only drew me deeper into his orbit.

I pushed off the wall and started walking toward the rink again. The familiar path felt different somehow—charged with an electric anticipation that thrummed beneath my skin.

What have I done?

But there was no escaping this pull; he’d gotten under my skin already. With each passing moment leading up to practice, I could feel myself falling deeper into whatever chaos Knox Callahan stirred within me—and this time? There was no way back.

Chapter 12

Knox

Iwoke up before the sun, the room thick with heat despite the early morning chill. Sweat slicked my chest, my cock already half-hard, a cruel reminder of the dream that had ripped me from sleep. The sheets twisted around my legs, tight and suffocating, but not nearly as constricting as the tension coiled in my gut.

I dreamed of her again.

Iris—wild and fucking relentless, pushing against me with that fierce little fire in her eyes. In the dream, I’d pinned her against the boards, our bodies colliding, friction igniting like a live wire between us. I could still feel the way she’d strained against me, strong and stubborn, trying to fight the inevitable.

Like she had a fucking chance.

My fingers dug into my scalp as I exhaled sharply, trying to shake it off. It wasn’t the first time. And God help me, I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I’d spent too many nights like this—tangled in my own sheets, tangled in her. Or at least the thought of her.

This was more than frustration. More than obsession.

She was under my skin, lodged in a place I couldn’t rip her out of, no matter how much I tried.

And I was done trying.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the silence. My pulse kicked up—because for a second, I let myself think it might be her. Maybe a text asking if I was ready for practice. Maybe something bolder, something reckless that hinted at everything simmering beneath the surface.

But it wasn’t.

Just a goddamn reminder about the training schedule.

I tossed the phone aside and pushed myself up, my muscles tight with lingering frustration. My body ached with the need to move, to hit something, to burn through this restless energy before it consumed me whole. The rink was calling me—the ice, the boards, the fight.

And her.

Always her.

Because no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, this had never been about coaching.

It was about Iris.

The way she skated like she had something to prove. The way she took a hit and came back harder. The way she fucking challenged me, like she wasn’t already mine.

But she was.

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