Ice Cold Alibi

Chapter 3

By Wednesday afternoon, the rehabilitation wing felt less like a pristine corporate sanctuary and more like a tactical disaster zone.

Of course this was happening to me, I muttered, pressing the palms of my hands against my lower back as I stared down at a spreadsheet tracking post-op recovery metrics for six different forwards who treated physical therapy like a personal insult.

The door to my office pushed open with a soft click.

Maya stood in the doorway holding two oversized iced coffees from the corner cart, her silver hoop earrings catching the harsh fluorescent lights. She took one look at my ink-stained fingers and the dark circles under my eyes, and let out a sharp whistle.

"You look like you survived a minor train derailment," she announced, dropping a coffee onto my desk before kicking the door shut behind her. "How's the high-flying world of professional sports medicine treating you? Are you rubbing elbows with billionaires or just dodging flying hockey pucks?"

"Worse," I groaned, wrapping my fingers around the cold plastic cup. "I'm dealing with men whose egos are inversely proportional to their pain thresholds. Do you know what Roman Vance did this morning?"

Maya leaned against the edge of my desk, her eyes widening with immediate, malicious interest. "The Ice King? Did he breathe carbon monoxide in your general direction? Did he look at you with those terrifying dead-fish eyes?"

"He didn't say a single word for forty-five minutes," I said, my voice rising in pitch as the memory rushed back. "He just sat on the hydraulic table, stared straight ahead like a granite statue, and let me put him through a brutal hip-mobility sequence without a single complaint. Which is worse than yelling! When an elite athlete doesn't complain, it means they're either dying or plotting your professional demise."

"Or," Maya murmured, taking a slow sip of her drink with a maddening little smirk, "he's entirely fascinated by you and has no idea how to process it."

I shot her a lethal glare over the rim of my coffee cup. "He looks at me like I'm a particularly annoying administrative error that upper management forgot to delete. Yesterday, he caught me trying to fix the jammed laminator in the breakroom and didn't even offer to help. He just stood in the doorway, crossed his massive arms, and watched me struggle for three minutes before telling me the gear was archaic."

"Did he touch you?"

"What?"

"During the session, Sienna. Did he invade your personal space? Did he do that thing where tall men loom over you to prove a point?"

I opened my mouth to snap a denial, but the words stuck in my throat. I remembered how close he had stood on Monday morning. I remembered the clean scent of cedar and ozone, the way his shoulder muscles flexed beneath his grey henley, and how my own pulse had spiked when his dark gaze locked onto mine.

‘Nope,’ I lied instantly, my voice pitching up a fraction too high. ‘Absolutely not.’

Maya laughed—a bright, ringing sound that cut right through the sterile quiet of the clinic. "You are completely doomed. You walk in here ready to conquer the professional sports world, and three days later you're flustered by a defenseman with cheekbones that could cut glass."

"I am not flustered," I protested, pointing my pen at her like a weapon. "I am focused, professional, and entirely immune to moody athletes with commitment issues. I spent three years being a glorified caretaker for a man who didn't even remember my favorite coffee order. I am done fixing broken men."

Before Maya could retort, a sharp, authoritative rap echoed against the open door frame.

We both turned.

Roman Vance stood in the doorway. He had changed out of his practice gear and into a black wool overcoat that made him look less like an athlete and more like a mob enforcer who specialized in kneecaps. His dark hair was damp from the shower, curling slightly against his forehead, and his expression was as unreadable as an iron vault.

His gaze flicked from Maya to me, lingering for a fraction of a second on the way my hand was still defensively clutching my pen.

"Carter," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, vibrating straight through the floorboards. "Vance wants updated extension numbers for my knee before the afternoon media session. Stop gossiping with your friend and pull my chart."

Maya's eyebrows shot straight up toward her hairline. She looked from Roman to me, a slow, delighted grin spreading across her face.

My cheeks flared instantly hot. I scrambled to my feet, nearly knocking over my coffee cup in the process. "I wasn't gossiping, Mr. Vance. I was conducting a mandatory clinical consultation regarding your stubborn refusal to ice properly."

Roman didn't blink. He didn't even crack a smile. He just held my gaze with those chilling, river-water eyes. "Right. Ice. Bring the chart to my locker room office in five minutes, Carter. Don't be late."

He turned on his heel and walked down the hall, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner with silent, predatory grace.

Maya let out a long, breathless whistle. "Oh, honey. You are in so much trouble."

‘I hated him.’

At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I slammed my laptop shut, grabbed his medical file, and marched down the hallway toward the players' restricted wing, my heart hammering a reckless, terrified rhythm against my ribs.