AGAINST THE ICE

Chapter4

Max POV

The moment I saw that email on Rory’s screen, I knew we were screwed. Not because there was anything official tying us together—hell, the night in that motel barely counted as a mistake let alone a scandal—but because perception never needed truth. It needed drama, suggestion, the kind of whispered narrative that turned facts into footnotes. And now we were a headline waiting to happen.

Rory looked pale under the overhead light. Her jaw was tight, eyes locked on the screen like it might rewrite itself if she stared long enough.

“Who would file it?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Could be anyone. Intern. PR rep. Someone from legal. It’s anonymous, which means whoever it is has something to lose.”

I took a slow breath, trying to stay grounded. “So what happens next?”

Her voice was brittle. “The complaint gets reviewed. If it’s deemed credible, HR opens an investigation.”

“Investigation into what, exactly?”

She turned to me then, meeting my gaze fully. “Into whether you and I had an inappropriate relationship during your onboarding.”

“Which we didn’t.”

She arched her brow.

“Not officially,” I amended, grimacing.

Rory didn’t smile. “You don’t get how fragile this is, do you? My father barely tolerates me holding authority in this organization. One complaint, even a baseless one, could derail everything I’ve spent years working for.”

I moved closer. “Then let me take the heat.”

She shook her head before I finished the sentence. “They’ll spin that too. Say I used you. Say you manipulated me. Either way, I lose credibility.”

“Then we tell the truth,” I said.

Her laugh wasn’t bitter—it was exhausted. “You think the truth matters to the people looking for blood?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.

“I can fix this,” she whispered, more to herself than to me. “If we create distance, keep public appearances professional, make it clear there’s nothing personal between us…”

“That’s a lie.”

She didn’t flinch. “It’s survival.”

I exhaled, dragging a hand down my face. “You’re asking me to pretend I don’t care about you. Again.”

“I’m asking you to help protect the team. Protect me.”

My fists clenched at my sides. “Fine. But know this, Rory—playing pretend doesn’t make the feelings go away. It just hides them until they rot.”

She blinked, and something flickered behind her eyes, but she didn’t reply. She turned back to her screen, shutting down the email, her face returning to the polished neutrality I hated more than any fight I’d ever been in.

I left the office without another word.

The next morning, the locker room was quiet when I walked in. Too quiet.

Guys glanced up, and then quickly back down. A few muttered greetings. One or two avoided eye contact entirely.

I found my locker and started changing, forcing my face into something calm. Detached.

“You alright?” came a voice beside me.

Liam, the team’s defenseman, leaned against the next row of lockers, chewing on an energy bar like nothing was amiss.

“Peachy,” I said.

He nodded. “Heard there’s heat coming your way.”

I looked at him sideways. “Is that so?”

He shrugged. “People talk. The Internet's having a field day.”

I finished lacing up my skates. “People always talk.”

He gave me a long look. “And sometimes they talk louder when it’s about the boss’s daughter.”

I froze. He didn’t elaborate. I didn't need to.

I stepped onto the ice like I was stepping onto a minefield. Every pass, every shot, every second, I felt the weight of eyes on me. Not just the coach. Not just the teammates. Everyone.

And Rory was in the press box.

Clipboard in hand. Hair pulled tight. Mouth set in that unreadable line. She looked like a statue carved from resolve.

When I glanced up after a hard drill, our eyes met for half a second. Just enough to hurt.

She looked away.

The coach called us in after the third scrimmage.

“Max,” he barked, “you’re skating like you’ve got concrete in your boots. Wake the hell up.”

“Yes, sir,” I muttered.

“Don’t give me ‘sir.’ Give me effort. Give me focus. Or you’re sitting.”

I nodded, jaw clenched.

He turned back to the team. “Everyone else—cool down laps.”

As the rest of the guys drifted away, I felt my pulse spike.

I needed to get out of my own head. I needed to forget Rory’s voice. Her expression. The damn email.

That night, I drove aimlessly after leaving the stadium. Vancouver’s lights blurred against the windshield. I ended up at the waterfront, killing the engine and staring out over the dark water.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

I answered.

"You don’t get to shut down just because it’s hard."

Rory.

I didn’t say anything.

She continued. "You’re not alone in this."

I swallowed. "You told me to act like I was."

A pause.

Then: "I was wrong."

That admission did more damage than a slap.

She exhaled. "I’m at the stadium. Training suite."

Click.

She was waiting in the empty treatment room when I arrived, sitting on the table with her arms crossed.

“I thought you said we needed distance,” I said.

She stared at me. “I said we needed control. That’s different.”

“Not really.”

Silence.

She stood slowly. “This thing between us... it’s not going away.”

I stepped forward. “No, it’s not.”

“I tried to be logical. Tried to protect the team. Protect my name. My father’s legacy.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

Neither could I.

I reached for her hand, hesitated, then let it drop.

“I’m tired,” I admitted. “Tired of hiding. Of pretending this doesn’t eat me alive.”

She stepped in. “Then let’s stop hiding.”

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t polite. It was raw, desperate, the kind of kiss people write songs about. The kind that leaves marks in places no one can see.

She pulled back first, breathless.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said,"My chest was tight. Hopeful.

Then her phone buzzed,then looked down.

Her face was drained of color.“What is it?”

She swallowed. “HR wants a formal interview,tomorrow.”I froze.

She looked up. “And they’ve called in a legal rep. One that reports to my father.”

Everything tilted.

And just like that, the lie we were trying so hard to manage became a truth we could no longer ignore.