Curvy & Claimed by the Ex’s Hockey Rival

2

Seraphine

The next morning, the bedroom felt suffocatingly quiet.

I stood by the foot of the bed, staring down at the heavy black equipment bag Magnus had left behind on the storage bench. Emblazoned on the durable nylon was the team’s crest alongside his name and jersey number: Walter 14.

His team was starting their intensive two-month training camp today. It was an essential stretch before the season opened, demanding every ounce of focus, and in his rush out the door at sunrise, he had forgotten an entire gear bag.

My chest ached as I looked at it. After everything he said yesterday, after sitting there watching him laugh while reading Sasha’s article, after being called a hippo and told I was repulsive, every self-preserving instinct told me to leave the bag right where it was. Let him deal with the inconvenience.

Yet, after seven years of being his wife, my first instinct was still to help. I had spent nearly a decade keeping his life organized and making sure he had whatever he needed to succeed. The habit of caring for him was ingrained so deep that even his cruelty couldn't instantly erase it.

I picked up the heavy strap, hauled it onto my shoulder, and headed out to my car.

I'll just drop it off at the equipment desk, I reasoned as I drove toward the St. Jude Arena. I don’t even need to see him. Just hand it over and go home.

The drive took twenty minutes, but with every mile closer to the arena, a familiar, heavy knot tightened in my gut.

I had spent the last eight years avoiding this place.

To hockey fans, this complex was just an entertainment hub. But for me, the sight of the curved metal roof brought back memories I had spent nearly a decade trying to bury.

Memories of early mornings before sunrise, the world pitch black outside while the cold air stung my cheeks.

The unmistakable, crisp hiss of steel blades cutting across fresh, mirror-smooth ice.

The sound of entire arenas erupting into cheers, calling my name as I finished a routine.

The cool, reassuring weight of gold medals resting against my chest.

Once, an ice rink was the only place where I felt complete. It was home.

Now, every step toward the entrance felt like dragging an anchor.

I adjusted the bag on my shoulder, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the ground. My oversized coat felt warm and bulky, but I wrapped it tighter around myself, terrified that someone might look at me too closely. I told myself it didn't matter. I was only here to deliver Magnus's gear. Nothing else.

I entered through the player and staff side doors, navigating the rubber-matted hallways that led toward the private locker rooms and executive offices. The low hum of the refrigeration chillers vibrated through the floorboards, carrying the familiar scent of cold ice, tape, and leather.

I was heading toward the manager's office when muffled voices drifted from an open door down the hall.

One of them belonged to Magnus.

The other was Lukeman.

I quickened my pace, planning to call out and let them know I had the bag, when Magnus's voice carried clearly into the hallway.

"She’s an embarrassment, Luke. I’m not exaggerating anymore."

My feet stopped dead.

My fingers locked around the strap of the bag, the nylon digging into my skin. The hallway suddenly felt airless.

"Did you read that piece Sasha ran?" Magnus went on, his voice thick with frustration. "The whole team saw it. Half the guys are joking about it behind my back, and I had to walk into the building pretending it didn't bother me."

I stood completely frozen outside the half-open door. I knew I should walk away, but my shoes felt glued to the floor.

"I hate going to public events with her," Magnus continued, the cold annoyance in his words cutting straight through me. "Every dinner, every team gathering, I spend the entire night worrying about who's taking pictures. Having her stand beside me is humiliating. It makes me look like a joke."

Tears pricked behind my eyelids, but I forced myself not to make a sound.

I expected Lukeman to offer some mild reassurance, to tell Magnus that people would move on, or at least remind him that I was his wife.

Instead, Lukeman’s response made my stomach drop into a pit of ice.

"I didn't want to bring this up before camp started, Magnus," Lukeman said, his tone entirely businesslike and cold. "But since you brought it up... it’s becoming an actual problem for your career."

A brief silence followed, broken only by the sound of Magnus setting down a cup. "What are you talking about?"

"Two major endorsement deals have stalled," Lukeman said evenly. "Apex Apparel passed on the campaign, and the watch brand is holding off on renewing your contract."

"Because of a gossip article?"

"Because of the image," Lukeman corrected. "Elite brands don't just pay for your points on the ice, Magnus. They pay for the lifestyle you project. You're an elite athlete, the team captain. You represent peak performance and discipline."

Lukeman paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

"Right now, your wife’s public image completely contradicts that. Brands look at her and see a complete lack of control, and they feel it reflects poorly on you. Several partners are already hesitant about being associated with that kind of image. She’s turned into a liability."

A sickening wave of nausea washed over me.

A liability.

Not a person. Not the woman who had stood beside Magnus through his injuries, supported him through grueling seasons, and mourned three lost pregnancies in an empty house while he chased his career.

To them, I was just a flaw in his brand. An obstacle costing him money.

I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the duffel bag so hard my knuckles turned white. I prepared to turn around and leave the bag by the wall before they noticed me.

Then Lukeman spoke again.

His tone was detached, calm, and chillingly practical.

"Then divorce her."

My breath caught in my throat. The entire world seemed to screech to a sudden, violent halt.

Divorce her.

The words hung in the quiet space outside the door like a death sentence.

I stared at the c***k in the door, waiting for Magnus to shout, to push back, to tell his agent that he had crossed a line.

Instead, the room fell dead silent.

Magnus said nothing at all.