The broken acrylic glass still crunched under Cole’s shoes as he stormed across the rubber mats.
He didn't look at the shattered boards. He didn't ask if I had a concussion or check to see if the five-ton machine had crushed my legs. His eyes were pinned entirely to my stomach, his face twisted with an ugly, suffocating mix of disbelief and fury.
"Is it his?" Cole demanded, his voice echoing off the high steel beams of the rink.
I didn't answer. I leaned against Roman’s arm, my bruised hip throbbing with every breath.
"Answer me, Lena!" Cole lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab my upper arm. "You were living in my condo three months ago. Is that my kid or did you sleep with the new owner the second he signed the check?"
Before Cole's fingers could touch my jacket, Roman stepped between us.
Roman caught Cole’s wrist in midair with a sickening, effortless snap of force. He didn't raise his voice, but the sudden stillness in his posture carried enough threat to freeze the entire room.
"Touch her again," Roman said softly, "and I'll make sure you never hold a stick with that hand again."
Cole grimaced, straining against Roman’s grip before Roman shoved him back. Cole stumbled two steps on the rubber flooring, his jaw clenched as he adjusted his team jacket.
"She was my fiancée," Cole snarled, pointing a shaking finger at me. "I have a right to know what she's carrying."
I looked at the man I had spent five years of my life supporting. For half a decade, I had catered to his routines, managed his injuries, and defended his arrogance to anyone who questioned it. In return, he had handed my career over to league investigators to protect his salary.
"You have no rights to anything in my life, Cole," I said, my voice completely steady. "Not my career. Not my body. And certainly not this."
"Lena, don't play games with me—"
"You gave up the right to ask me questions the night you put those vials in my bag," I cut in. "You are nothing to me."
Sirens wailed in the distance. The facility manager rushed over, pale and sweating. "Mr. Black, there are three news vans pulling into the front lot. Word got out that Mercer's here."
Roman didn't waste another second on Cole. He turned to me, his arm supporting my waist without crowding me. "We're leaving through the loading bay."
We didn't go to the hospital. By the time our car cleared the city limits, local news alerts were already screaming about a violent altercation between the Wolves' new owner and their captain under disciplinary review. Paparazzi had staked out the emergency rooms downtown.
Instead, Roman’s driver took us forty minutes north, down a private gravel road winding through dense pines until a modern, dark-timber home appeared at the edge of a black, still lake.
The house was quiet, smelling faintly of cedar and cold stone.
"Sit on the sofa," Roman said, closing the heavy front door behind us.
I sank into the oversized leather couch, the adrenaline finally draining from my limbs. The dull ache in my left hip flared sharply.
Roman disappeared down the hallway and returned two minutes later. In one hand, he held a flexible ice pack wrapped in a clean gray towel; in the other, a stack of freshly folded dark fleece sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt.
He stopped two feet away from the couch.
"May I?" he asked, holding up the ice pack.
I looked up at him, surprised by the pause. Cole had never asked for permission to touch me, take my time, or alter my schedule. He had simply expected access.
"Yes," I murmured.
Roman knelt on the hardwood floor beside the couch. He moved with careful precision, placing the cold pack against the outer curve of my bruised hip. He didn't press down too hard. His fingers stayed strictly on the edge of the towel, ensuring his skin didn't wander where it wasn't invited.
A sudden wave of warmth hit my senses.
My heightened pregnancy sense of smell caught the scent of him instantly—clean rain, crisp cedar, and the distinct, rich aroma of the black coffee he drank this morning. It was intoxicatingly close, filling the quiet space between us. Every nerve ending in my skin felt hyper-aware of how wide his shoulders were, how warm his hand felt through the towel, and how close his dark eyes were to mine.
He maintained the distance without wavering. The restraint in his posture was almost electric, far more intense than if he had tried to pull me into his lap.
"The doctor will be here in twenty minutes for a private ultrasound," Roman said, his gaze fixed on my face. "Just to verify there's no internal bleeding."
"Thank you," I said softly, clutching the hem of my jacket.
"The clothes are clean," he added, rising to his feet and stepping back to give me space. "The master bedroom is the first door on the right. Take your time."
***
Around two in the morning, I woke up gasping.
The nightmare was vivid—the screech of the Zamboni's engine, the exploding glass, and Cole's cold, calculating eyes staring through me as league officials took my badge away.
I sat up in the wide guest bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. The house was pitch-black except for the pale moonlight reflecting off the lake through the tall windows.
Without thinking, my bare feet touched the cold wood floor. I walked down the quiet hallway, drawn toward the faint glow of light spilling from beneath the master bedroom door.
I reached the threshold and raised my hand to knock.
My knuckles hovered half an inch from the dark wood.
A sudden, sharp clarity stopped me. Three months ago, after my life fell apart at the arena, I had thrown myself into this man's bed to escape the pain. It had been reckless, impulsive, and raw. But I couldn't make a habit of turning to him every time I felt terrified. I couldn't use Roman Black as a shelter just because I didn't know how to stand on my own two feet.
I lowered my hand and took a step backward.
The door swung open before I could turn around.
Roman stood in the doorway, wearing a charcoal Henley and dark lounge pants. His hair was slightly ruffled, his jaw shadowed with dark stubble. He looked down at me, taking in my bare feet and the tension in my shoulders.
"You're awake," he said, his voice low in the quiet hallway.
"I had a bad dream," I admitted, clutching my arms around my chest. "I was going to knock, but... I shouldn't have come over here. I can't keep running to you whenever things get overwhelming."
Roman leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, his dark eyes steady on mine. He didn't reach out to pull me inside, nor did he step away.
"I want you, Lena," Roman said plainly, without a trace of hesitation. "I wanted you three months ago, and I want you right now. But that doesn't mean I get to decide when you want me back. You don't have to hide from me, and you don't have to apologize for keeping your distance."
The honesty of his words hit me squarely in the chest. He wasn't playing a game of leverage. He wasn't pretending he didn't desire me, but he refused to turn that desire into a claim.
"Come look at this," Roman added quietly, nodding toward the workstation set up on the long wooden dining table behind him. "You need to see what my forensics team just pulled."
I followed him into the dining room. A secure terminal was glowing with rows of recovered file directories.
"My IT team cracked the backup logs from the Wolves' private legal server," Roman said, pulling up a decrypted Word document. "This is the draft of the medical liability waiver Kane had ready for championship night."
I leaned over the table, scanning the text. The document clearly outlined the transfer of all illegal substance handling and distribution liability directly to the team's primary physical therapist—to me.
Then my eyes dropped to the metadata box in the lower corner of the screen.
*Date Created: October 14.*
My breath stopped in my throat.
October fourteenth wasn't championship night. It wasn't even during the playoffs.
October fourteenth was the exact night Cole took me to a private rooftop in the city, dropped to one knee, and put an engagement ring on my finger.
The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
Cole hadn't panicked on championship night to save his skin. He had planned to frame me before he even proposed. The entire engagement hadn't been a promise of love—it had been the setup for my execution.
