The smell of stale sweat and wet leather hit my nose, and my stomach instantly twisted into knots.
I barely made it past the locker room door before slamming into the staff bathroom, dropping to my knees, and heaving over the porcelain bowl. My throat burned as dry sobs racked my chest.
When the nausea finally subsided, I sat back against the cold tile wall, trembling.
I reached into the pocket of my fleece jacket and pulled out the thin paper slip from the clinic down the street. The ultrasound results were printed in clean black ink at the bottom.
*Fetal age: 11 weeks, 2 days.*
Seventy-nine days.
There was no gray area. No mathematical ambiguity. Cole and I hadn't slept together in the two months leading up to the championship game because he claimed sex ruined his on-ice focus.
The baby growing inside me belonged to Roman Black.
One reckless, desperate night in a penthouse suite had turned into a permanent tie to a billionaire I barely knew.
I rinsed my mouth at the sink, splashing cold water across my pale cheeks. For the last three months, I had lived in quiet exile. The state licensing board had suspended my physical therapy license pending its review, forcing me to take a temporary conditioning job at the Beacon Hill Winter Sports Center, running off-ice conditioning drills for high school hockey players and coaching junior figure skaters.
It was humiliating, but it paid my rent. And now, I had someone else to protect.
I pushed the bathroom door open and stepped into the small lounge.
The television mounted above the row of lockers was blaring. A live press conference broadcast filled the screen, broadcasting directly from the Wolves' downtown headquarters.
Roman stood behind a sleek wooden podium.
He wore a tailored midnight-blue suit, his shoulders broad and commanding under the glare of dozens of flashing cameras. He looked ruthless, steady, and entirely in control of the room.
"Effective immediately," Roman's deep voice echoed through the small lounge speakers, "the Boston Wolves organization is reopening a full independent inquiry into the banned substances uncovered on championship night."
A flurry of reporters shouted over one another, but Roman raised one hand, cutting off the noise instantly.
"Until that investigation concludes," Roman continued without a flicker of emotion, "Cole Mercer has been temporarily relieved of captaincy duties and placed under indefinite disciplinary review. He will not represent the team in official press events until that review concludes."
My heart pounded against my ribs.
Roman was systematically dismantling Cole's career on national television. He was doing everything he promised, using his wealth and authority to pull apart the lie Cole had built to save himself.
I stared at the screen, pressing my palm flat against my lower abdomen.
A cold clarity settled over me. I couldn't tell him.
Roman lived in a world where everything was an acquisition, an asset, or a weapon in a corporate war. If he found out I was carrying his child, this pregnancy would become another piece of collateral in his fight against the league and the former owners.
I refused to let my baby become anyone's leverage. I would handle this alone.
I turned away from the television, grabbed my medical kit, and pushed through the heavy double doors leading to the facility's secondary ice rink.
The chill from the ice hit my face immediately. Near the far boards, a sixteen-year-old figure skater named Maya was practicing her triple jumps while the maintenance crew prepped the heavy ice resurfacer near the garage bay.
"Keep your core tight on the landing, Maya!" I called out, walking along the rubber walkway toward the bench. "Don't lean into your right hip!"
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic screech tore through the rink.
The massive engine of the Zamboni roared violently. Black smoke coughed from its rear exhaust as the heavy machine jerked forward at full throttle, completely out of the operator's control.
"Brakes failed! Get off the ice!" the driver screamed, throwing his weight against the useless steering column.
The five-ton steel machine veered sharply to the left, heading directly toward the corner boards where Maya was unlacing her skate on the player's bench. The girl froze in terror, paralyzed by the roar of the oncoming machine.
"Maya, move!" I yelled.
I didn't stop to calculate the risk. I sprinted across the slick rubber runner, lunging across the threshold of the open gate.
I grabbed Maya by the shoulders of her jacket and shoved her hard toward the carpeted tunnel, throwing her completely out of the path of the vehicle.
An instant later, the resurfacer smashed into the wooden boards with an ear-splitting crash.
The heavy impact shattered the thick acrylic glass overhead. Shards of safety glass rained down, and the shockwave threw me backward. My feet slipped on the frost, and I hit the hard concrete floor near the penalty box, landing hard on my side.
Pain flared through my hip, but my immediate instinct took over.
I curled my knees toward my chest, wrapping both arms tightly around my lower stomach to shield my abdomen from the falling debris.
Through the cloud of dust and frost, heavy, frantic footsteps echoed across the concrete.
"Lena!"
A voice barked through the chaos—dark, authoritative, and unmistakable.
Before I could push myself up, strong hands hooked beneath my shoulders and knees. Roman lifted me off the freezing floor with effortless power, pulling me tight against his broad chest.
He didn't have his coat on. His white shirt was dusted with pulverized glass, his dark hair disheveled, and his knuckles—the ones I remembered seeing bruised three months ago—gripped my back with fierce urgency.
"Are you hit? Did the glass cut you?" Roman demanded, his dark eyes scanning my face with intense focus.
"I'm fine," I gasped, trying to pull back, but my arms remained locked over my stomach. "Roman, put me down. What are you even doing here?"
"I came to see you," he said, ignoring my resistance. He carried me out of the danger zone, kicking a broken piece of acrylic out of his path. "You weren't answering your phone."
Two on-site paramedics rushed into the rink with trauma kits, followed by the facility manager.
"Set her down on the bench!" the lead paramedic shouted, pulling on rubber gloves. "Ma'am, did you hit your head? Any abdominal impact?"
"No, I just bruised my hip," I said quickly, trying to stand on my own feet.
Roman wouldn't let go. He kept one arm locked firmly around my waist, supporting my full weight while his sharp gaze dropped down to the way I was still shielding my belly.
"Check her thoroughly," Roman commanded the medic, his voice tight with an edge I hadn't heard before.
The paramedic quickly opened my employee health file on her digital tablet. "Wait, she's flagged on our priority protocol. Lena, you submitted updated medical paperwork to HR this morning. You're pregnant."
The words hung in the frigid air like a gunshot.
Roman's entire frame went rigid.
He didn't speak for several agonizing seconds. His dark eyes shifted slowly from the paramedic's tablet to my face, reading every ounce of panic I couldn't hide.
His sharp mind put the pieces together with terrifying speed.
"Eleven weeks?" Roman asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper.
Before I could find the breath to lie, the main glass doors of the training center slammed open with a violent crash.
"Black!"
Cole Mercer stormed through the entryway, his face flushed with rage, clutching a smartphone displaying the Wolves' press release. He had four team security guards trailing behind him.
"You cowardly son of a bitch!" Cole snarled, marching straight onto the rubber matting toward us. "You can't strip me of the captaincy!"
Cole stopped dead in his tracks.
The words died in his throat as his eyes landed on Roman, on the way Roman held me possessively against his chest, and on the paramedic standing between us.
"What did she just say?" Cole whispered, staring at my stomach, then up at Roman. "Eleven weeks?"
