Pucking Ruthless

Chapter 2

The training suite was a sterile, glass-walled observation deck that overlooked the Vipers’ private ice rink. It was a space designed for perfection, yet as I stared out at the darkened, empty arena, all I could see was the reflection of a life I had spent half a decade scrubbing clean.

I had been back in the city for six months, working for the Vipers under a pseudonym and a string of impressive credentials that Silas Thorne, the boy who once didn't know how to fill out a tax form would never have understood. My ascent had been surgical. I had built a reputation in the elite sports world as the "Fixer," the doctor who could resurrect the dead, at least professionally.

When the Vipers’ management approached me about the Captain, I hadn't hesitated. Revenge is a dish best served with a specialized medical certification and a mountain of legal leverage.

The door to the suite slid open with a soft hiss. I didn't turn around, I could hear the uneven, rhythmic thud of his crutches before he even entered the room. He was moving slower than the legends claimed, his gait labored, his breathing heavy with the exertion of simply navigating the hallway.

"The suite is programmed for your vitals, Thorne," I said, my voice clinical as I tapped my tablet. "Sit."

I heard a sharp intake of breath. "I prefer to stand."

I turned then, leaning back against the glass. He was struggling, sweat already beading on his forehead, his jaw clenched so tight I wondered if his teeth would crack. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss he refused to name.

"You can stand until your knee gives out and you collapse or you can sit and actually listen to the woman who is going to decide if you ever touch a puck again," I said, gesturing to the ergonomic chair in the center of the room. "Your choice, Captain."

He hesitated, his pride warring with the reality of his own fragility. Finally, he hobbled to the chair and sank into it, the sound of his ragged exhale filling the room. He looked smaller here, stripped of the roaring crowd and the blinding lights of the arena. He was just a man, broken by the very thing he had worshipped.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing a trembling finger at the display on the wall. It was a 3D thermal mapping of his knee, showing the severe degradation of the ligament and the inflammation that was throttling his nerve endings.

"That is your life," I said, walking toward him, my heels clicking like a countdown. "It’s a map of your failures. You’ve been playing through pain for eighteen months, haven't you? Taping it, numbing it, praying it would hold just long enough for you to get the next contract."

Silas stiffened. "How do you know that?"

"I read the medical files you tried to bury," I said, stopping directly in front of him. I reached out, my hands firm and professional and gripped his knee. He flinched, his body reacting to the touch with a sharp jolt. "You’ve been lying to your team, your doctors and your fans. You’re a liability, Silas. And in this league, liabilities get cut."

"I am the Vipers," he growled, though the fire in his voice was flickering. "They don't cut me."

"They will when they realize you’re a ghost of a player," I retorted, pressing down gently on the inflamed tissue. He gasped, his hands gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white. "And I’m the only one who can keep you from disappearing."

I leaned in, my gaze locking onto his. "You’re going to tell me exactly what happened during the third period of the championship game. The truth, Silas. Not the 'tough guy' version you gave the press."

He looked away, staring toward the dark expanse of the ice rink. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. I traced the line of a long, jagged scar on his calf, a scar I recognized from years ago, a mark he had earned in a fight he had never told anyone about.

His eyes snapped back to mine, widening. The touch was too intimate, too specific. He opened his mouth to speak but the words died in his throat as his brain finally caught up to the sensory input. He leaned forward, his focus sharpening into something predatory and confused.

"You're not just a doctor," he whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. "You've touched this leg before."

My heart hammered against my ribs – a frantic, rhythmic protest but my face remained a mask of stone. I didn't pull away. I kept my hand on his skin, a deliberate, maddening anchor.

"I’ve studied your history, Mr. Thorne," I said, my tone as dry as bone. "I know every mistake you’ve ever made. I know the rhythm of your heartbeat when you’re lying and I know exactly what you’re afraid of."

I pulled a small, silver instrument from my kit – a diagnostic tool and held it up. "Now, we’re going to see how deep the rot actually goes."

Just as I reached to initiate the scan, the heavy steel door of the suite burst open. A woman in a sharp, designer suit stepped in, her eyes sweeping the room with cold, calculating precision. It was Vivian, my twin sister, the woman who had replaced me in every way that mattered, the woman who currently sat on the board of Thorne Industries, the woman who had helped Silas draft the contract that had ended my old life.

She looked at Silas, then at me, a cruel, knowing smile spreading across her face.

"Silas," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I see you've finally met the doctor everyone is talking about."

She turned her gaze to me, her eyes narrowing as if trying to place a ghost. "You look familiar, Doctor. Have we met?"

I didn't blink. I didn't breathe. I kept my hand on Silas's leg, feeling the sudden tension in his muscles, feeling the way the air in the room went thin. I had prepared for everything – the pain, the manipulation, the revenge but I hadn't prepared for her.

"We haven't met," I said, my voice steady, though a cold, sharp dread coiled in my stomach. "But you're standing in the middle of a treatment and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Vivian laughed, a hollow sound that bounced off the glass. "I don't think so, Doctor. Silas is my fiance, after all. I think I have the right to know exactly what you're doing to him."

The room went completely silent. My hand stayed on Silas's leg but I felt the entire world shift beneath us. I looked at Silas. He wasn't looking at Vivian. He was staring at me, his eyes searching, his expression a chaotic mixture of realization, panic and a dawning, terrifying familiarity.

He didn't know who I was yet but he knew that something in this room was about to burn to the ground. And as Vivian stepped closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder, I realized the game had just become much more dangerous. I had come here to destroy him but now I had to do it while keeping my identity a secret from the sister who had betrayed me.

I gripped the tablet so hard the screen cracked, the jagged line echoing the fissure in my composure. I had one move left and it was the most reckless one I had ever considered. I had to reveal just enough to keep Silas from looking into my past while simultaneously driving a wedge between him and the woman he thought he loved.

"He's not your fiancé," I said, my voice ringing out, clear and lethal. "At least, not for long."

I looked directly at Silas, and for the first time, I didn't hide the hatred in my eyes. "Because by the time I'm finished with him, he won't be able to stand on his own, let alone walk down an aisle with you."

Silas didn't move. He didn't defend her. He just watched me, his gaze locked onto mine and in that moment, I knew he saw it….the ghost of the girl he had discarded, now standing before him, holding the knife he had given her.