Mia POV
My father's office felt like a courtroom, and I already knew the verdict.
I sat in the guest chair with my arms wrapped around myself, trying to get my hands to stop shaking, trying to figure out which version of the truth would be small enough to say out loud without being dismissed. I had done this before, sat in a room with authority, and tried to explain something that left no marks, and I already knew how it ended.
Cole stood by the window, his back to the room, shoulders so tight I could see the tension from across the room. Marcus had been taken to the medical ward with a bag of ice and a story about tripping on the stairs. My father's assistant GM had written it down without looking up.
No one had asked me what happened. No one had come to check on me in the stairwell. My father's first move had been to ask the security team to keep it off the arena cameras.
That told me everything I needed to know about how this meeting would go.
"What happened?" My father's palms hit the desk. "I want an answer. Now."
I opened my mouth and closed it.
The last time I had tried to tell him about Marcus, I was twenty-two years old and sitting in this same chair with a bruise on my jaw that I had covered with concealer. He had listened for four minutes.
Then he had told me that I had always been too sensitive, that I misread situations, that Marcus was a good man with a bright future and I should think very carefully before I said something I couldn't take back.
Then he had offered Marcus a ticket to the season opener.
I had nothing new to say that would change any of that.
There was no proof that Marcus had hit me. Only Cole's knuckles were bloody, and Marcus's face was swollen. He wouldn't believe me, especially when he had already chosen his side the moment he traded for Marcus.
"Mia." His voice sharpened. "I asked you a question."
"I tripped," I said.
"You tripped," he repeated.
"I tripped, and Cole was coming up the stairs, and Marcus was there, and they got into some argument. I don't know. I wasn't paying attention."
My father stared at me for a long moment. Then he turned to Cole.
"Ryder. What happened?"
Cole didn't turn around. His voice was low, uninterested. "It won't happen again."
"That's not what I asked," he slammed his hands on the table, and I flinched.
"I know what you asked, but what happened doesn't matter. I said it... It won't happen again." Cole insisted.
My father's face reddened. He walked around the desk and stopped inches from Cole's back. "You punched our new franchise player in the face. In a stairwell. Where anyone could have seen. Do you understand what would happen if this got out?"
"Then maybe you shouldn't have traded for a piece of garbage who puts his hands on women."
Silence. I stiffened.
My father's jaw tightened, and he looked at me, then back at Cole. Something passed between them... something I didn't understand.
"I don't know what game you're playing," my father mumbled slowly. "But I'll tell you what's going to happen. You, Ryder, are going to be Marcus's personal coach. Skating drills. Conditioning. One-on-one. You're going to fix whatever this nonsense is by spending time together."
Cole turned around slowly.
His face was the kind of pale that came from pain, not fear. His knuckles were split and swollen. There was blood on the collar of his shirt that I didn't think was his.
He looked at my father for a long time.
"No," he stated firmly, with so much authority.
My father blinked. He was not used to that word from people who worked for him.
My father shook his head. "It wasn't a suggestion."
Cole's hands curled into fists. "I said no."
"You don't have a choice." My father smiled, thin and mean. "You're the assistant coach. He's a franchise player. You will train him, or you will spend the rest of your career looking for a team willing to hire a coach who can't get through a practice without going down on the ice."
He let that sit.
"Good luck with that.”
I stood up. "Why can't someone else train him? Why does it have to be Cole?"
My father's head whirled toward me. His eyes narrowed. "What is it to you?"
The question hung in the air. What is it to you?
I couldn't say he's the only person in this building who came running when I screamed. I couldn't say he climbed those stairs on a knee that should have kept him flat on his back, and he did it because of me, and that is the first time in years that anyone has done something that cost them anything for my sake. I couldn't say any of it.
So I picked up my bag and headed towards the door
"Mia." My father's voice called out with a warning.
I walked out.
"Mia!" My father screamed. I didn't turn back, but the moment the door closed behind me, my legs gave out.
I made it to the equipment storage room. The one at the end of the hall, where old jerseys and broken skates went to die. I locked the door. I slid down the wall. And I cried. Everything was falling apart, and I had nothing to do about it. I tried to stop the tears, but it just kept on coming.
My nails dug into my palm. I shouldn't let Marcus get to me.
The door opened.
I didn't even look up, I didn't need to. The particular quiet of the way he moved, the uneven weight of his steps, I knew who it was already. That was a terrible thing to know about a person. That was the kind of knowing that meant something you weren't ready for.
Cole.
"Get away from me," I said, my voice hoarse.
He didn't get away.
He crossed the room in three limping steps, lowered himself to the floor beside me, and pulled me into his chest.
I pushed against him. "I said..."
"I heard what you said." His arms didn't loosen. "I'm not listening."
I stopped pushing. My body betrayed me. I collapsed into him... my face against his chest, his heartbeat under my ear, his hand cradling the back of my head.
"What happened?" he asked quietly. "All of it. No more lies."
And I told him everything.
The first time Marcus backhanded me. The way he apologized with flowers and tears. The second time. The third. The night he broke my wrist and told the ER doctors I'd fallen down the stairs. The restraining order didn't matter because he always found me. The hospitals I transferred to. The cities I fled. The way I stopped sleeping with the lights off.
"I'm scared," I whispered. "I'm so scared. He's here. He's never going to leave. And my father...my father is going to make you train him. He's going to make you spend every day with the man who..."
Cole tilted my chin up, his thumb brushed the tears from my cheek. His face was so close I could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, the scar above his eyebrow, the pain he carried that matched mine.
"Listen to me," he said.
I looked at him.
"Marcus Webb is never going to touch you again. Not while I am alive and standing. You understand me?"
"Cole, you can't promise…"
"I can." His jaw was set. "I will."
His forehead came to rest against mine.
"I have spent eighteen months in this building watching everything I ever worked for collect dust," he said quietly. "I have come in every day and coached players who are half as good as I was and twice as careless, and I have gone home every night to an apartment that doesn't feel like anything. I stopped wanting things a long time ago because wanting things hurt too much.”
It felt like I was holding my breath.
"And then you walked through that office door at eleven o'clock at night and told me I didn't know shit about you." The corner of his mouth moved. "And I thought, she's right, I don't, and I wanted to.”
I held my breath.
"Mia." His voice was very quiet.
I waited.
"I don't know what any of this is," he said. "I don't know what I'm doing. I've been telling myself to stay away from you since the first time I saw you leave his office at midnight with your keys in your hand and that look on your face like you were already somewhere else."
He exhaled.
"But I'm done pretending I don't see you. If that's going to be a problem for your father, for the team, for anyone, I genuinely do not care." He pulled back just far enough to look at me properly. "I just need you to know that you are not alone in this building. Whatever happens next, you are not alone, ok?"
My chest ached.
"Okay," I said. It came out barely above a breath.
"Okay," he repeated.
And neither of us moved.
Then I heard my father's voice come through the door, from somewhere down the hall, flat, impatient, already irritated.
"Mia? Where are you?" I closed my eyes, my breath became irregular.
Cole's hand, which had been resting against my cheek, didn't move, neither did I.
