Page 87 of Shots & Echoes

And that meant I was already lost.

Iris was slipping.

I saw it in the way her grip tightened around her stick, in the hesitation that wasn’t there before. The fire in her eyes was still burning, but now there was something else licking at the edges—something uncertain, something unraveling.

She was fighting herself as much as she was fighting for that damn jersey.

And I fucking hated it.

“Again!” I barked, voice cutting through the heavy air of the rink.

Iris clenched her jaw and took off, pushing harder, trying to outrun whatever the hell was sinking its claws into her. I tracked every movement, every slip, every shaky inhale.

She wasn’t breaking.

Not yet.

But she was close.

Her speed wavered just enough for me to see the doubt creeping in, and that made my blood boil. Not at her—but at whatever had put that crack in her foundation. At whoever had made her hesitate.

I pushed off the boards, skating toward her as she battled through another drill. The moment she came around the corner, I cut into her space, body-checking her hard against the glass. Not enough to send her crashing—but enough to make a point.

She gasped, eyes flashing with fire as she shoved me back. “What the hell, Callahan?”

I smirked. “Figure it out, Evans. You think they’re gonna go easy on you?”

Her breath came fast, sharp. Frustration flared in her expression, but beneath it, I saw something else—relief. Like she’d been waiting for someone to snap her out of whatever headspace she was drowning in.

I leaned in just enough to lower my voice, making sure only she could hear me. “You want that jersey?” I murmured. “Then stop running from whatever’s got its hooks in you. Face it. Take the hit.”

She swallowed hard, pulse hammering against the thin skin of her throat.

I didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The moment stretched, thick and heavy with something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly, she shoved off the boards and skated away.

Not running.

Not breaking.

But burning.

And fuck if I didn’t want to burn right along with her.

I skated backward, watching her carefully, measuring every flicker of emotion that passed across her face. She was furious, breathing hard, eyes locked onto mine like she wanted to carve her frustration straight into my skin.

Good.

Let her be angry. Let her feel every ounce of it. Because that anger? It was better than hesitation. Better than whatever the hell had been haunting her all practice.

I pushed her, and she pushed back.

That was our game.

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