Pucking Ruthless

Chapter 5

The flashbulbs were no longer just cameras, they were strobe lights in a surgical theater, exposing every tremor in my hands and every secret I had spent years guarding. I looked out at the sea of microphones, the "thirsty" journalists of the sports world and realized the trap Silas had sprung. By positioning me as the architect of his "miraculous" recovery, he had turned my revenge into a public contract. If he failed, it was my failure. If he succeeded, he was the hero and I was merely his instrument.

"Dr. Vance," a voice shouted from the front row – a familiar, aggressive tabloid reporter. "How exactly do you plan to repair a ligament that surgeons at the Mayo Clinic deemed a 'total structural collapse'? Is this science or is this a PR stunt for the Vipers?"

I didn’t look at Silas. I didn't look at the manager. I let the silence hang, thick and suffocating, until the room was so quiet I could hear the hum of the overhead vents. Then, I turned toward the reporter, my expression as cold and impenetrable as the ice he once ruled.

"I don't deal in miracles," I said, my voice projecting with a sharp, lethal clarity that silenced the room. "And I certainly don't deal in PR. I deal in anatomy. If you think the damage to Mr. Thorne’s knee is the end of his career, you clearly haven't read my research on biological scaffold regeneration. This isn't a stunt. It’s an evolution. And if you’re looking for a story, I suggest you wait until the season opener. Because that’s when you’ll see the difference between a man who plays for fame and a machine built for dominance."

A ripple of shock went through the room. Silas’s gaze, which had been burning into me since the moment I stepped onto the podium, shifted. The triumphant glint in his eyes was replaced by something darker, deeper – a genuine, unadulterated hunger.

The press conference ended in a chaotic frenzy of scribbling pens and shouting questions but I was already moving, my heels clicking a rapid, rhythmic retreat toward the private corridors.

"Doctor!"

Silas’s voice echoed off the polished walls. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The adrenaline was beginning to turn into a cold, sharp nausea. I reached the service elevator, jamming my access card into the reader, but before the doors could slide shut, a large, calloused hand slammed against the metal panel.

Silas stood there, his crutches cast aside, bracing his weight against the frame. He looked exhausted, his face gaunt but the fire in his silver eyes was brighter than ever. He stepped into the elevator, the small space instantly shrinking under the weight of his presence. He hit the button for the private medical suite, then turned to face me.

"That," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp, "was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen."

"Get out," I said, my back pressed against the cold steel of the elevator wall.

"You’re lying to them," he continued, ignoring me, his gaze dropping to my throat, then back to my eyes. "The biological scaffold research you mentioned? That’s theoretical. It’s never been tested on a human knee. You’re not just repairing me, Aria. You’re using me as a test subject. You’re using my career to validate your life’s work."

I felt the pulse in my neck jump. "I’m using the tools available to me. If you’re afraid of the risk, you should have retired."

He laughed, a sound that lacked any real mirth. He took a step forward, closing the distance between us until the heat radiating from him was palpable. He didn't touch me but his presence was a physical weight. "I’m not afraid of the risk. I’m fascinated by you. You’ve spent five years turning yourself into this….cold, brilliant, calculating. You’re the mirror image of the player I used to be. You’re obsessed with the game."

"I’m not playing," I snapped.

"Then why are you here?" He leaned in, his face inches from mine, his scent – harp ozone and expensive cologne invading my senses, dragging me back to nights under the stadium lights, nights before he had learned how to use people like pawns. "If you wanted to destroy me, you could have leaked my medical files six months ago. You could have ended me with a single email to the press. But you didn't. You came here. You came to work for me. You came to touch me every single day."

He reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of my sleeve, hovering over the scar on my wrist. I flinched, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

"You’re not here to destroy me, Aria," he whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, devastating vulnerability. "You’re here to see if I’m still the person who loved you."

The elevator dinged – a jarring, mechanical sound that signaled our arrival. The doors slid open to the empty, dimly lit hallway of the private wing. I pushed past him, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I couldn't let him do this. I couldn't let him dismantle my resolve with his memories.

"I don't care who you were," I said, not looking back. "And I don't care who you are now. You are a biological system in need of repair. That is all."

I started walking, my pace erratic, heading toward the laboratory. I needed the cold, sterile comfort of my work. I needed the data. I needed anything that wasn't the way he looked at me, like he was seeing the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Aria!"

He followed me, his limp pronounced, his breathing ragged. I reached the lab door and keyed in the code but before I could step inside, he caught my arm. His grip wasn't aggressive this time, it was desperate.

I spun around, my hand instinctively flying up to shove him away but he didn't let go. He pulled me toward him, our bodies colliding with a force that knocked the breath from my lungs. For a second, the world narrowed down to the heat of his skin and the raw, terrifying thud of his heart against mine.

"I know I destroyed you," he said, his voice broken. "I know I chose the game over us. But look at me. Look at the price I’ve paid."

He stepped back, his eyes searching mine, his face pale and strained. He wasn't the untouchable Captain anymore – he was just a broken man, begging for a second chance he didn't deserve.

"I don't want the game anymore," he said, his voice a whisper that crawled under my skin. "I want to know if there’s anything left of what we had."

I stared at him, my mind screaming at me to push him away, to walk into the lab and lock the door, to finish the plan and watch him crumble. But as I looked at him – really looked at him, I saw the truth. The revenge I wanted was already happening. He was suffering. He was vulnerable. He was completely at my mercy.

And in that moment of weakness, I realized the final, most dangerous piece of the puzzle. I didn't want him destroyed. I wanted him to recognize that everything he had achieved – the fame, the money, the championships was nothing compared to the loss of me.

"You want to know if there's anything left?" I asked, my voice cold but my heart betraying me by skipping a beat.

I reached out, tracing the line of his jaw, my fingers lingering on the skin he had once pressed against mine in the quiet dark. "There is. There's anger. There's resentment. There's a decade of loneliness that you caused."

I leaned in, my lips inches from his, the air between us charged with the same electricity that had once been our undoing. "And it’s all yours to deal with, Silas. You wanted to play? Welcome to the game."

I pulled away, stepping into the lab, the sterile, blue light washing over my face. I turned, my hand on the handle of the door, and looked at him one last time.

"The first session starts in ten minutes. Don't be late."

As I closed the door, I leaned my head against the cold wood, my knees finally giving way. I was shaking. The game was in motion, the trap was set and for the first time, I couldn't tell if I was the hunter or the prey. And as I turned to the table where his medical files lay open, I saw a notification on my tablet—a message from my sister, Vivian.

‘I know who you are. And I know exactly why you’re here.’