Page 83 of Shots & Echoes

Everywhere.

I leaned against the wall, trying to gather myself, but his words echoed in my head:“I don’t need to touch you to have you.”It wasn’t just a taunt; it was a promise. I hated how true it felt.

Anger surged through me as I shoved away from the wall, marching down the corridor toward the rink exit. Knox was an arrogant asshole—always pushing, always testing. Why did he have to make everything so damn complicated? Why did he have to look at me like that?

Each step felt heavy as if I carried a weight far beyond my gear bag slung over my shoulder. I should be focused on making Team USA, on proving myself, not caught up in whatever twisted game Knox Callahan was playing.

But deep down, beneath the frustration and fury, something else stirred. A heat that made my thighs clench every time Ireplayed his words in my mind—like a flame licking at dry wood. He was right about one thing: he didn’t need to touch me for me to feel owned.

The moment I walked into that empty rink and saw him standing there—his presence filling the space like an electric current—I had known this wasn’t just about hockey anymore. He had laid claim to something deep inside me that I didn’t even know existed.

As I reached for the door handle leading outside, I hesitated. What would it take to push him away? Or maybe... what if I leaned into it instead? My pulse quickened at the thought—a dangerous thrill wrapped around uncertainty.

I gritted my teeth and stepped outside into the chill of late afternoon air, desperate for clarity but finding only confusion swirling inside me like a storm.

I barely slept that night.The sheets twisted around me, a tangled mess echoing the chaos in my mind. Each time I closed my eyes, visions of Knox surged forward—his dark gaze locking onto mine, his breath hot against my skin. I imagined him finally snapping, grabbing me, pressing me into the wall of the rink with that predatory intensity that made my heart race.

His body would block out everything else—the cold air, the bright lights—until there was just him and me. I could see it so clearly: the way he’d lean in close, his mouth inches from mine, daring me to fight back or surrender completely. Every scenario spiraled deeper into my mind until I couldn’t distinguish between what I wanted and what terrified me.

I woke up breathless, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to my skin. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as I sat up,gasping for air. The sheets, my thighs, were damp against my legs, and a wave of disgust washed over me. How could I let myself go there? How could I crave him when he was everything I knew I shouldn’t want?

I dragged a shaky hand through my hair, trying to push away the remnants of sleep and those vivid dreams. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t just about hockey anymore; it felt personal. Knox’s intensity had invaded every corner of my thoughts until he consumed me.

With every memory of his smirk or that low growl of his voice, desire twisted inside me like a noose tightening around my throat. No matter how much I tried to shove him out of my mind—no matter how many times I told myself to focus on the jersey—I felt myself slipping further into this dangerous obsession.

Disgust mixed with longing churned in my stomach as I pulled the covers tight around myself, trying to shield against both the cold and the heat creeping up from deep within. Why couldn’t I shake this? Why couldn’t I just move on? The answer eluded me like smoke slipping through fingers—impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore.

The next day,everything felt off. I laced up my skates with a tightness in my chest, a knot that hadn’t loosened since yesterday. As I stepped onto the ice, the familiar chill hit me, but it didn’t bring comfort. My passes were sloppy, the puck slipping away from my stick more often than not. Each time I fumbled, frustration simmered just below the surface.

I pushed harder, willing myself to focus. My footwork should have been quick and sharp, but today it felt sluggish—everystride a reminder of how far from perfect I had fallen. The drills dragged on like molasses. My teammates shot worried glances at each other, their whispers rising and falling in the din of our practice.

“Evans, what’s going on?” Brooke asked after a particularly botched pass that sailed wide of her stick.

I shrugged it off with a tight smile, pretending to shake it off like any other day.

But Knox’s gaze bore down on me from the glass—intense and unyielding. I could feel his eyes tracking every misstep as if he relished in it. He didn’t call me out; he never did when I was slipping. Instead, he leaned against the boards with his arms crossed, waiting for something to break loose.

A part of me wanted him to say something—anything—to pull me back into focus, but another part relished the way he watched me unravel like it was all part of his plan. It felt like he knew this would happen; that eventually, I’d crack under the pressure of wanting him while desperately trying to cling to my dreams.

“Come on!” Knox barked at another player who skated by me without effort. “You’re better than that!”

His voice cut through my fog, but it didn’t reach me; not really. It only reminded me how different things were for him compared to where I stood now—stumbling through practice while trying to ignore the chaos in my head and heart.

As we cycled through drills again and again, my mind drifted back to last night—the dreams that twisted desire into something darker. Maybe that was why I couldn’t find my footing today; maybe it was Knox who had thrown me off balance in ways I hadn’t even realized yet.

And he saw it all—the uncertainty wrapped around my game like a chain—and waited for whatever was coming next.

Every time our eyes met, that heat flared between us, a promise wrapped in tension that left my heart racing. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss. I fought to look away, but my resolve crumbled with each passing drill.

Brooke’s voice sliced through the haze after yet another bad pass slipped past her stick. “You good, Evans? Didn’t think you knew how to fumble.”

It wasn’t meant to be cruel; it was just hockey. But right then, it felt like a slap across the face. My cheeks burned, and I gritted my teeth against the frustration bubbling up inside me. I could feel Knox’s gaze intensify from where he stood at the boards—his eyes narrowed, studying me as if he were assessing my every misstep.

I swallowed hard and pushed my chin up.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I shot back at Brooke, forcing a confidence I didn’t feel. The truth was, I was anything but fine. Each failed attempt chipped away at my focus like water against stone.

“Let her work it out.” Knox's voice cut through the tension. Low. Firm.

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