Pucking Ruthless

Chapter 3

The silence that followed my declaration was so absolute it felt heavy, like atmospheric pressure crushing the air from the room. Vivian stood frozen, her manicured hand hovering inches from Silas’s shoulder. She wasn't used to being dismissed and she certainly wasn't used to being challenged in a space where her influence reigned supreme.

Silas, however, remained motionless. He was staring at me not with the arrogant detachment of a superstar but with a raw, unsettling intensity. He was trying to reconcile the cold, clinical woman standing before him with the ghost of the girl he had discarded half a decade ago.

"That was a bold statement, Doctor," Vivian finally said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, silken register. She withdrew her hand and turned her sharp, predatory gaze toward me. "Most people who work for the Vipers prefer to keep their opinions about Silas’s personal life to themselves. They find it helps with their job security."

I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes locked on Silas, watching the way his jaw tightened. I was playing a game of chicken with his own pride and I knew exactly how to steer the wheel.

"My job security isn't tied to his social calendar," I replied, my voice steady, reflecting a calm I didn't entirely feel. "It’s tied to his performance. And right now, his performance is abysmal because he’s distracted by… other priorities. If he wants to lead the Vipers to a championship, he needs to be an athlete not a socialite."

Silas let out a sharp, jagged laugh. It wasn't a sound of amusement, it was the sound of a man recognizing a mirror. "She’s right, Viv. Leave it."

Vivian blinked, visibly shocked. She opened her mouth to argue but Silas cut her off with a wave of his hand – a gesture of dismissal that was cold, efficient and devastating.

"The Doctor and I have a schedule to keep," he said, his eyes still burning into mine. "I'll see you at the gala tonight. Go."

Vivian’s expression curdled but she wasn't a fool. She knew when she had lost a round. She shot me one final, venomous look – a look that promised a swift and painful termination of my employment and swept out of the room. The door hissed shut behind her, sealing us into the silence of the observation deck.

As soon as the click of her heels faded down the corridor, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Silas shifted, the movement causing his injured knee to spasm. He groaned, a sound he couldn't quite stifle and slumped back into the chair.

"You like playing with fire, don't you?" he rasped, his eyes narrow and analytical.

I didn't answer immediately. I walked over to the supply cabinet, my movements measured and controlled. I pulled out a fresh set of diagnostic sensors and a sterile needle. My hands were perfectly steady.

"I like efficiency, Mr. Thorne," I said, walking back to him. "You’re the one who keeps adding variables to your own recovery. Vivian is a variable. Your ego is a variable. The past you’re trying to outrun? That’s the biggest variable of all."

I knelt before him, positioning the sensors on his skin. This time, he didn't pull away. He watched my face with a terrifying, singular focus, as if he were trying to deconstruct me, to solve the puzzle of who I was.

"You knew her," he said. It wasn't a question. "Vivian. You knew her before today."

I leaned in, my hands working deftly as I secured the sensors to his quivering thigh. "I know who everyone is in this city, Silas. It’s part of being the best at what I do. And I know that if you want to win, you have to cut the dead weight. Whether that weight is a broken ligament or a woman who cares more about the title on your jersey than the man beneath it."

"And what about you?" he whispered, his voice dangerously close to my ear as I worked. "What’s your weight, Doctor? What are you running from?"

I looked up, our faces inches apart. I could see the reflection of the arena lights in his silver eyes, the desperation that lay just beneath the surface of his arrogance. I felt the familiar pull of the chemistry that had once been our undoing, the magnetic force that had made me believe in him when no one else would.

But I also remembered the cold sting of his rejection, the silence of the apartment after he had packed his bags for the big leagues and the way he had laughed when he saw me years later, barely recognizing me as he walked past with his new life on his arm.

"I’m not running from anything," I lied, my voice as cold as the ice on the rink below. "I’m just here to finish a job."

I stood up, stepping back to give myself space. I grabbed the tablet and swiped through a series of complex recovery protocols. "We start with the hydrostatic therapy today. It’s going to be brutal and you’re going to hate every second of it. If you want to quit, tell me now. I’ll sign the paperwork to release you and you can spend the rest of your career as a commentator."

Silas stared at me for a long moment, the tension in the room vibrating like a live wire. Then, he did something I didn't expect. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly firm despite his injury.

His skin was burning, a stark contrast to the cold composure I was projecting.

"I don't quit," he said, his voice low and guttural. "And I don't let things go until I understand them. You’re hiding something, Aria—"

He froze, his eyes widening. The name had slipped out. He hadn't meant to say it, or perhaps he had. It hung in the air between us, a ghost from a life he thought he had buried, a name that tasted like copper and regret.

My breath hitched but I didn't pull my wrist away. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my heartbeat thundering in my ears like a drum.

"Why did you call me that?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn't answer. He just looked at my wrist, then back at my eyes, his grip loosening ever so slightly. The realization was dawning on him, a slow, agonizing process of recognition that was just as painful as the injury he was nursing.

He looked at me, really looked at me and in that second, I saw the exact moment the walls of his arrogance crumbled. He saw the girl who had waited for him, the woman who had suffered for him and the entity that was now going to destroy him.

"Because," he said, his voice raw with a sudden, dawning terror, "you have the same scar on your wrist. The one from the accident five years ago. The one you told me was a burn from the stove."

I looked down. In the rush of the moment, I had forgotten to cover the thin, jagged white line that marred my skin – the mark of the night my life had shattered alongside his ego.

Before I could pull away, the door to the suite opened again and this time, it was the Team Manager, his face pale and frantic.

"Silas! The press release is going out in an hour! They’re asking if the rumors are true – if you’re actually retiring!"

The interruption was violent, shattering the fragile, suffocating bubble of the moment. Silas jumped, his hand dropping from my wrist but his eyes never left my face. He looked as if he had just seen a dead woman walking.

"Tell them..." Silas rasped, his voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. He stared at me, his gaze locked, his body trembling. "Tell them... I have a new plan."

He turned to the Manager, but his attention was entirely on me. "And tell them I’m not going anywhere. The Doctor is going to explain why."

He smiled, a twisted, broken thing. "Right, Doctor? You’re going to tell them exactly what you have planned for me?"

I stood frozen, the tablet clutched to my chest, my mind racing. He knew. Or he was close enough to knowing that the distinction didn't matter. The game had shifted. I had intended to play the role of the indifferent savior but he had just dragged me into the spotlight, making me the centerpiece of his survival.

As the Manager scrambled to relay the news, Silas leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on mine with a dark, terrifying fascination. The cliffhanger wasn't just my secret anymore, it was the entire foundation of his comeback. And I knew that from this moment on, there was no turning back.

He had caught the scent of the truth. And in the world of high-stakes sports, the truth wasn't just a revelation, it was a weapon. I had come to destroy him but he had just handed me the keys to his world and I had no idea if I was going to use them to save him or set everything on fire.