Icing The Heart

Chapter 7 Rory's Pov

When the nurse called my name, I followed her into a room that smelled faintly of disinfectant and lavender. She took my blood pressure, asked questions, entered my answers into a tablet and did not once act like my life was actively combusting.

“Last menstrual period?” she asked.

I answered.

“Any dizziness? Bleeding? Severe cramping?”

“No.”

“Any prior pregnancies?”

“No.”

The word landed in the room softly. Prior.

As if this one had already become part of my official history.

Oh God.

She smiled gently. “We’ll do a blood test to confirm but based on the home tests and your dates, it’s likely very early.”

Very early.

That should have made it feel less real. It did not.

Early was still real. Small was still real. A secret was still real even if no one else had heard it spoken aloud.

After the blood draw, the doctor came in. She was kind, professional and far too calm for someone standing near the wreckage of my entire future.

“We’ll call you once the results are processed,” she said. “But I want you to begin treating this as a confirmed pregnancy. Avoid alcohol, start prenatal vitamins and consider your activity level carefully until we know more.”

My stomach tightened and I unstrangled my vocal cords to manage to ask softly, “My activity level?”

Her gaze flickered to the chart. “You’re a professional athlete?”

“Hockey.”

Her face changed for half a second before she controlled it.

There it was. The reaction. Not judgment exactly. Not yet. But calculation. Concern. The invisible mental rearranging of me from athlete to risk.

“I would recommend you speak with an obstetrician familiar with high-impact sports,” she said carefully. “This does not automatically mean you must stop everything immediately but you need medical guidance. Your body is doing something demanding.”

I looked at her, saying nothing at first. My body had been doing demanding things since I was twelve years old and standing in a rink after my father’s funeral because grief felt less powerful when I could outrun it.

But this was different.

This was not a bruise I could ice. Not a cracked rib I could tape. Not a concussion I could hide until the room stopped spinning.

This was a life. Maybe.

God.

I swallowed hard and finally spoke, “Can my team find out?”

The doctor’s eyes sharpened slightly in response to that. “Not without your consent.”

“My team doctor?”

“They should not receive your private medical information without authorization.”

Should not.

I knew enough about powerful people to hate those two words.

Should not was where rich men built loopholes.

Still I nodded.

The doctor’s voice softened. “You do not have to make every decision today.”

I almost smiled at that because I knew that was where she was wrong.

Women like me never got the luxury of deciding later. Every silence became a decision. Every delay became a strategy someone else could use. Every private fear eventually became public property if the wrong person found out.

By the time I left the clinic, my phone was feeling heavy in my hand.

I stood on the sidewalk, the late winter air cutting through my hoodie, and did something stupid.

I opened Jaxon’s latest message.

Jaxon Kane: I turned it down. The bonus. Weeks ago. I can prove it. Please let me prove it. Please, Rory.

For a second, the city around me went quiet.

I turned it down.

Weeks ago.

I read it again.

Then again.

The words found the weak place in me immediately. Of course they did. They slipped between ribs, under armor, straight toward the part of me that remembered his mouth against my temple in the dark. His hand steady at my back when the cameras flashed. His body between mine and every room determined to make me smaller.

I hated that thinking about him could still hurt me so much.

I hated that a part of me wanted to believe him.

Then I remembered the file.

Female player situation.

Resolution.

Voluntary resignation. Trade acceptance. Contract termination.

Fuck him ! I thought as pain seared my heart. f**k everything!

I locked the phone and put it away.

Proof did not change the beginning after all.

And the beginning still mattered. It always will.

***

I returned to New York on Monday , despite my cousin's worries because apparently even emotional devastation had scheduling requirements.

Lena called it “necessary optics.”

Victor called it “professional responsibility.”

Coach called it “getting your a*s back where it belongs.”

I called it walking back into a building that had already tried to bury me and finding everyone holding shovels.

Titans headquarters looked the same when I arrived. Glass doors. Polished floors. Framed action shots of men pretending glory belonged to them by birthright. My own photo hung near the far wall, from last season, my stick raised after a goal that had nearly broken the internet for twenty-four hours.

RORY CALLAHAN MAKES HISTORY.

I stared at it as I walked past.

History, apparently, was easier to celebrate after it had been properly contained.

Lena was waiting near the elevators, sleek in black trousers and a cream coat, her bob sharp enough to slice through a board meeting.

Her eyes moved over me and I saw it. The quick assessment. Face. Weight. Posture. Fatigue.

She knew something was off. I wasn't surprised that she did.

PR people survived by noticing what everyone else missed and then deciding whether it could be turned into a headline.

“You look pale,” she said finally.

“I missed this place too much.”

Her mouth tightened. “Rory.”

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

I almost laughed because the question sounded too human coming from her.

“No,” I said.

Her expression changed, just slightly.

It was the truth. I had not planned to tell it. It escaped anyway.

For a moment, Lena said nothing. Then she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Victor is in a mood. Be careful in there.”

“In there?”

“Conference room.”

“Wonderful. Nothing says welcome home like an ambush with bottled water.”

She did not smile and somehow, that worried me.

“Rory,” she said quietly, “whatever you know, whatever you think you know, do not say anything in that room unless you are ready for it to become a weapon.”

My hand tightened around the strap of my bag.

There it was again.

That strange, almost-helpful version of Lena Brooks that appeared for three seconds at a time before vanishing behind strategy.

“What makes you think I know anything?”

Her eyes held mine.

“Because you stopped performing out of anger,” she said. “That is when people should worry.”

Then she turned and walked toward the conference room. I followed while thinking of what she had said to me.