You Ruined My Career, So Why Is Your Boss Asking About Our Baby

I spent years keeping my fiancé’s body healthy enough to win a championship.

One hour after he kissed my neck in the locker room, banned drugs were found inside my medical bag.

Cole stood in front of every camera in America and said, “I trusted the wrong person with my career.”

He never told them I was his fiancée.

He never told them he knew I was innocent.

While fans chased me through the arena, I hid inside a stranger’s private suite. He gave me his jersey, carried me through an empty rink, and refused to kiss me until I could swear I wasn’t using him for revenge.

So I threw away Cole’s ring.

And spent the night with him.

The next morning, the stranger appeared on television.

Roman Black. Billionaire. Former hockey bad boy.

And the new owner of Cole’s team.

Three months later, I learned I was pregnant.

That was the same day Roman suspended my ex.

****

The smell of wintergreen and menthol hung thick in the empty training room.

I knelt on the rubber mat between Cole’s thighs, digging my thumbs into the tight band of muscle along his inner thigh. He had aggravated his groin strain during the morning skate, hours before the puck dropped for Game Seven of the Finals.

He leaned back on the bench, wearing only his damp compression shorts, fresh from a shower. When I tried to shift back to reach for the ultrasound wand, his knees closed around my waist, trapping me firmly against his legs.

"Relax, Lena," Cole murmured, resting one hand on the back of my neck. His thumb stroked my jawline. "The game doesn't start for an hour."

"If you tear this tendon in the first period, we lose the championship," I said, looking up into his hazel eyes. "Let me finish taping you."

"We're going to win," he said with absolute certainty. He leaned down, his mouth barely an inch from mine. "And tonight, we finally tell everyone. No more hiding in hotel rooms. No more pretending you're just the team physical therapist."

My chest tightened with anticipation. We had kept our engagement secret for eight months so it wouldn't distract from his contract negotiations. He had promised that the moment he lifted the trophy, he would put the ring on my finger in front of every camera in the building.

"Win the Cup first," I whispered, resting my palm flat against his chest. "Then we'll talk about tonight."

"Tonight, you're not going back to your own room," he promised, his voice low and possessive.

He released his hold on my waist, smirking as I scrambled to my feet to grab the kinesiology tape. At the time, I truly believed the hardest choice waiting for me was whether I was ready to spend the rest of my life in his world.

Three hours later, the arena was shaking.

Confetti rained down from the rafters as the final buzzer sounded. The Boston Wolves had won.

I stood by the tunnel entrance, smiling as Cole lifted the heavy silver trophy over his head under blinding spotlights. He looked every inch the golden boy captain.

Needing to pack up my medical gear before the post-game press conference, I slipped away from the roaring crowd and headed down the quiet back corridor toward the private examination room.

The door was cracked open.

Inside, Dr. Kane, Cole’s personal physician, was bent over my rolling workstation. He pulled three small, amber glass vials from his suit pocket and shoved them into the deep side pocket of my personal medical bag.

I recognized the red labels instantly. It was a banned central nervous system stimulant, an illegal performance enhancer strictly forbidden by the league.

My blood ran cold. Before I could step into the room, heavy footsteps approached from the adjoining office.

"Is it done?"

It was Grant, the team’s general manager. Cole walked in right behind him, his jersey drenched in champagne.

"Just dropped them into her kit," Dr. Kane said, zipping my bag shut. "If the anti-doping committee pulls random blood from Cole tonight, they'll find trace amounts. When they look for the source, the vials will be in her possession."

I froze in the shadow of the doorframe, every muscle in my body locking up.

"Cole, this will destroy her," Grant said, his voice tense. "The state board could suspend her license. She’ll never practice sports medicine again. She could face criminal charges."

Cole didn't even flinch. He picked up a towel and wiped the champagne from his face.

"It protects the championship," Cole said, completely calm. "If the league catches me, they vacate the title and void my extension. Lena will understand. Once the noise dies down, I'll take care of her."

"You're throwing your fiancée under the bus," Grant said.

"She won't need a physical therapy license anyway," Cole replied dismissively. "Once we're married, she isn't going to work. I'll buy her whatever she wants. Now get the PR team ready. I'm going back out to the ice."

They walked out through the opposite door, leaving me standing in the dark hallway, unable to draw air into my lungs.

The man who had promised to protect me had just traded my entire life to save his reputation.

Within ten minutes, the nightmare unfolded.

League officials and arena security swarmed the medical room. I tried to speak, tried to tell the head investigator that Dr. Kane had planted the drugs, but nobody was listening.

A leaked video had already hit social media—a blurry clip of me handing a wrapped package to Cole before the game. The caption claimed the team therapist had been running an illegal doping ring for the Wolves.

Cole was escorted past me by three security guards and his publicist. He looked straight through me, his face blank and detached, refusing to meet my eyes.

"No comment," his publicist barked at the cameras swarming behind him. "Cole Mercer had no knowledge of any illicit substances provided by medical staff."

The betrayal hit me like a physical strike.

Reporters and furious fans flooded the VIP tunnel. Microphones were shoved into my face. Flashbulbs blinded me.

"Did you drug the captain?"

"How much did they pay you, Lena?"

Someone yanked hard on my shoulder. Fabric tore down the sleeve of my silk dress as a mob of angry spectators pressed in, screaming obscenities. Panic took over. I shoved past a security guard and bolted through an unmarked emergency door, running blindly up the stairs toward the executive suite level.

I grabbed the handle of the nearest private box and threw myself inside, slamming the heavy wooden door shut and throwing the deadbolt.

I leaned against the wood, gasping for breath, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

"You're in the wrong room."

A deep, gravelly voice cut through the shadows.

I spun around.

The suite was dimly lit, overlooking the empty lower bowl of the arena. Standing by the private wet bar was a man I had never seen before. He was tall, heavily built, and completely bare-chested.

A dark suit jacket lay crumpled on the counter beside him. Cold water ran from the brass faucet as he held his right hand under the stream, washing bright crimson blood from his bruised, split knuckles.

He didn't look startled by my intrusion. His dark eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that rooted me to the floor.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, my voice trembling. "There's a mob out there. They... they cornered me."

Suddenly, the arena's fire alarm began to wail. High-pressure sprinklers in the ceiling hissed, bursting to life overhead.

Freezing water poured down instantly, soaking the suite, drenching my hair and ruining my torn dress.

The stranger didn't curse. He shut off the faucet, grabbed a dry towel to wrap his hand, and snagged a dark overcoat from the sofa.

"Move," he commanded, stepping toward me.

He opened a hidden service door behind the suite's private wardrobe. I followed him without hesitation. We navigated a labyrinth of concrete maintenance halls, cutting straight across the darkened, silent ice rink where confetti still floated in the cold air.

He moved with total authority, guiding me past the chaotic main exits and directly into the underground VIP garage.

A sleek black car waited near the private elevator. The driver opened the rear door the moment we approached.

The man climbed in and waited for me to sit beside him. The door slammed, cutting off the distant shouting of the press.

He pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat and held it out. "Wipe your face."

"Thank you," I murmured, taking it.

As I lifted the cloth, the three-carat diamond on my left hand caught the interior light. The ring Cole had given me in private, promising the world.

The man glanced down at my hand. "Mercer's girl."

It wasn't a question.

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I looked down at the diamond that was supposed to represent love, trust, and a future. Instead, it was a brand of sacrifice.

Without a word, I pulled the ring off my finger. I lowered the window an inch and shoved the ring through the gap, letting it drop onto the asphalt of the subterranean tunnel.

The man watched every movement I made.

"He's my ex," I said clearly.

He didn't reply, but his dark gaze lingered on my face as the car pulled out into the rainy city streets.

Twenty minutes later, we stepped into the private penthouse of the grandest hotel in the city.

I was shivering, my wet clothes clinging to my skin. The man disappeared into the master bedroom and returned a moment later, tossing a crisp, oversized white dress shirt onto the sofa.

"Take a hot shower," he said. "The guest bath is down the hall."

When I came out fifteen minutes later, I wore only his white shirt, the hem falling to the middle of my thighs. My wet hair hung loose over my shoulders.

The man was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of amber liquor in his clean hand. He had bandaged his knuckles.

I walked across the soft rug until I stood directly in front of him.

He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You should get some sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," I said.

I reached up, my fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, and pulled him down toward me.

My lips met his.

His reaction was immediate. He caught my hips with large, warm hands, pulling me flush against his hard frame. His mouth moved against mine with a rough, demanding heat that wiped away the cold shock of the night.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his breath warm against my cheek.

"Look at me, Lena," he said, his voice dangerously low. "If we do this, don't wake up tomorrow calling it revenge."

I looked straight into his dark eyes, feeling the absolute certainty settle in my chest.

"It's not about him," I said. "It's about me."

He didn't ask another question. He scooped me up into his arms and carried me into the master bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us.