Ice Cold Alibi

Chapter 4

The players' restricted wing smelled like floor wax, industrial laundry detergent, and the unmistakable metallic tang of twenty men sweating through five million dollars' worth of contract guarantees.

‘Of course this was happening to me,’ I muttered, clutching Roman's medical chart against my chest like a shield as I navigated the maze of frosted-glass doors.

Locker room 3 was quiet. Most of the team had already cleared out for the afternoon media sessions or hit the private recovery pools. Only a few distant echoes of laughter bounced off the tiled corridors. I knocked once on the heavy oak door marked with a polished brass plate bearing his surname, then pushed it open without waiting for an invitation.

Roman was sitting backward on a leather massage bench, stripped to the waist.

The overhead track lighting caught the hard planes of his shoulders, the sweep of muscle across his back, and the faint, pale lines of old surgical scars weaving through his skin. He was unlacing a heavy compression wrap around his left knee, his dark hair falling forward in wet strands over his forehead.

He didn't look up when the door clicked shut, but the heavy silence in the room shifted instantly.

"You're thirty seconds late, Carter," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that scraped against my nerves.

"I had to stop by the dispensary for your updated anti-inflammatory protocol, unless you'd prefer to spend tomorrow's practice limping like an old draft horse," I shot back, marching across the rubberized floor with my chin tilted up.

I stopped a few feet from the bench, dropping the file onto the polished wood table beside him. He looked up then, his river-water eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air in the room feel suddenly thin.

Up close, without the barrier of a treatment table or a desk, his physical presence was staggering. He towered over me even while sitting down, filling the space with a quiet, dominant gravity that commanded every corner of the room.

I kept my expression blank as my gaze involuntarily drifted down the length of his collarbone before I jerked it back up to his eyes.

"You're staring," he noted softly, a slow, dangerous edge curving the corner of his mouth.

"I am evaluating clinical data," I lied smoothly, pulling a digital tablet from my pocket with fingers that felt suspiciously clumsy. "Your extension metrics from this morning were borderline acceptable, Vance, but if you skip your evening stability exercises again, I'm going to report you to the head coach as a medical liability."

Roman let out a short, humorless breath that sounded almost like a laugh. He tossed the compression wrap onto the bench and planted both large hands on either side of his thighs, leaning back slightly as he looked up at me.

"You think you're tough, don't you?" he murmured, tilting his head. "Little physical therapist straight out of the minor leagues, walking into an NHL locker room like she owns the place."

I stepped closer, refusing to let him back me down. I had spent three years absorbing Liam's casual disrespect and masking my own worth to keep the peace. I wasn't about to let a brooding defenseman with a God complex treat me like an intern fetching coffee.

"I don't think I own the place," I said, my voice dropping into a sharp, icy cadence. "I know I own my department. And right now, my department dictates that you sit still while I check that joint before you ruin a multi-million-dollar playoff run because you're too proud to admit your knee hurts."

Before he could answer, the heavy outer door of the locker room banged open with a loud clatter.

"Vance! You ready for the broadcast interview or are you—oh."

Miller stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes darting from Roman sitting shirtless on the bench to me standing two feet away with a tablet clutched in my hands. A slow, incredibly obnoxious grin spread across Miller's face, the kind reserved exclusively for professional athletes who spent eighty-two games a year looking for locker room gossip.

"Well, well, well," Miller drawled, leaning against the doorframe with a theatrical sigh. "Interrupting something, doc? My bad. Carry on."

My face caught fire, a violent flush racing straight from my collarbone up to my hairline. I spun around to face Miller, opening my mouth to deliver a blistering denial, but Roman moved with terrifying speed.

In one fluid motion, he slid off the bench, stepping directly into my line of sight. His broad shoulders completely blocked Miller from view, his tall frame forming a wall between us.

"Get out, Miller," Roman said, his voice flat, cold, and entirely devoid of amusement.

Miller raised both hands in a mock-surrender, laughing softly. "Relax, captain. Just checking on the knee. See you in the media room."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving us alone again in the heavy, pressurized quiet of the office.

I let out a shaky breath, turning my back to Roman so he wouldn't see how badly my hands were trembling. "I need to go," I muttered, taking a step toward the exit.

A heavy, calloused hand wrapped gently around my wrist.

It wasn't a tight grip. It didn't restrict my movement. But the sudden heat of his skin against mine sent a jolt straight up my arm, locking my feet to the floor.

"Wait," Roman said, his voice softer now—too soft, dropping that defensive armor he wore like a second skin.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I looked up into those pale, assessing eyes right now, he would see every cracked piece of armor I was desperately trying to glue back together after Liam's betrayal.

‘Nope,’ I whispered to myself, pulling my wrist back with a stubborn tug. 'Definitely not.’

Roman let go instantly, his fingers sliding away from my skin with slow reluctance.

"Tomorrow, zero-eight-hundred," he said, his tone returning to that clipped, professional baseline as if the tension of the last two minutes hadn't even happened. "Bring the resistance bands. I'll be ready."

I didn't answer. I just pulled the door open and walked out into the corridor, my heart hammering a reckless rhythm against my ribs the entire way back to my office.