Curvy & Claimed by the Ex’s Hockey Rival

3

Seraphine

Say something.

The plea rose in my chest, silent and desperate.

Tell him he’s crossing a line. Tell him divorce is out of the question. Tell him that after seven years, I am still your wife.

I waited, barely daring to breathe, staring at the thin strip of light coming through the partially open door. Even an angry curse or an uncomfortable excuse would have been something.

Nothing came.

Inside the room, the quiet dragged out. Magnus didn't protest. He didn't defend me. He didn't remind Lukeman of our marriage vows or the years we had spent together.

That heavy, deliberate silence cut deeper than any cruel insult he had thrown across the kitchen counter yesterday. Words were hurtful, but this quiet was an agreement. He was actually considering it.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway, snapping me out of my trance.

Panic surged through me. If someone walked down this corridor and caught me standing outside the room clutching Magnus’s gear, the humiliation would crush whatever composure I had left.

I forced myself to swallow the burning lump in my throat. I blinked back the heat behind my eyes, tightened my grip on the bag, and stepped forward. I had to pretend I hadn't heard a single word.

I raised my hand and knocked firmly on the door frame.

"Magnus?"

The conversation inside stopped instantly.

I pushed the door open, keeping my expression smooth and neutral. Magnus was sitting on the leather sofa, a team schedule in his hands, while Lukeman stood near the desk with his tablet.

Magnus looked up, genuine surprise flashing across his face before his features quickly tightened with mild annoyance. "Seraphine? What are you doing here?"

"You forgot your gear bag on the bench," I said, my voice steady, though my fingers trembled slightly against the strap. "I knew camp was starting today and figured you’d need it."

Lukeman immediately shifted into professional mode. His lips curved into a warm, practiced smile. "Seraphine! Good to see you."

A few hours ago, I would have taken that smile at face value. Now, it made my skin crawl.

I watched as his hazel eyes briefly flicked down my body, taking in my heavy sweater, the wide cut of my coat, and the shape beneath it, before casually darting back up to my face. The mask stayed in place, but behind it lay the cold reality of what he had just said to my husband. To Lukeman, I was an anchor dragging down a lucrative contract. A brand risk that needed to be cut loose.

"Thanks for bringing it," Magnus said, rising from the couch. He took the heavy bag from my hands without much gratitude, dropping it onto the floor by his feet. There was no relief in his expression, no soft word of appreciation for making the trip across the city.

He glanced at his wristwatch, already anxious to return to his schedule. The distant whistle of an assistant coach blew from the lower rink level.

"Look, you should head out," Magnus said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Camp check-in is starting, and the team will be heading to the main ice soon. It’s better if you’re not hanging around the training area."

Better if you're not seen.

The real meaning was unmistakable.

Ashamed of her.

Bad for his image.

Divorce her.

The words spun through my head, loud and relentless, echoing with every beat of my heart.

"Right," I managed to say, stepping back into the corridor. "Good luck with camp."

I turned on my heel and walked away before either man could see the tears threatening to spill over my lashes.

I didn't care about the arena anymore. I didn't care about the ghosts of the past. All I wanted was to get through the main entrance, find my car, and break down in private. My chest felt so tight I could barely draw in air.

I hurried down the rubber-matted concourse toward the public exit, keeping my head down and staring at my sneakers.

I didn't realize the lobby had filled up until I nearly collided with a barrier of people.

A large crowd had gathered near the exit doors, blocking the wide hallway. Camera shutters clicked in rapid bursts, and voices called out over one another, demanding autographs and photos. Security guards were trying to keep a path open, but the fans pressed in tight.

Standing right at the center of the crowd was hockey’s biggest star.

Alaric Branwell.

Even standing still, his physical presence dominated the room. Broad-shouldered, tall, and wearing his team's dark training jacket, he looked every bit the feared left winger who dominated the ice. The media called him the Ice Assassin, known throughout the league for his cold discipline and devastating hits.

He was also Magnus Walter’s fiercest rival. Every time their teams played, the matchup became front-page news.

Yet to me, Alaric wasn't just a sports headline.

Years ago, before the NHL, before the contracts, before my ankle tore, we had trained at the same rink. We had shared early morning ice sessions, two quiet kids running drills while the world outside was still asleep.

A sharp pang of embarrassment hit me. The thought of him looking up and seeing what I had become made my stomach churn.

I pulled my coat tighter, lowered my head so my hair fell forward, and tried to skirt the outer edge of the fans, hoping to slip past the lobby unnoticed.

Suddenly, the noise around the table shifted.

The frantic scribbling of pens stopped.

I kept walking, eyes glued to the floor, willing my legs to move faster toward the glass doors.

Then I felt the prickle of eyes on me.

I slowed down and glanced toward the center of the crowd.

Alaric had stopped signing. The pen in his hand hung motionless over an outstretched jersey. Dozens of fans were still calling his name, waving programs and hats in his face, but his attention had shifted entirely away from them.

His storm-gray eyes were locked directly on me.

I froze.

Surely he isn’t looking at me.

I glanced behind myself, expecting to see a team official, a trainer, or another player standing nearby.

There was no one. Just an empty wall.

When I looked back, Alaric hadn't looked away. Surrounded by fans and flashing cameras, his gaze remained completely fixed on my face.

A quiet shock ran through me, leaving my heart pounding against my ribs.

Does Alaric Branwell actually remember me?