Ice Cold Alibi

Four hundred and eighty dollars. That was what was left in our joint checking account after I paid for Liam's custom skate orthotics, his specialized protein powder, and his half of our grocery bill. Four hundred and eighty dollars. For two people. While I worked thirty-eight hours a week at the clinic, squeezed in weekend home-health sessions, and wrapped ankles for the local junior league just so we could afford rent. "Seriously?" I muttered to the empty kitchen, staring down at my phone screen where the banking app mocked me with its pathetic little triple-digit sum. My phone buzzed against the laminate counter. Maya: Tell me you got the email. Tell me right now or I am calling your landlord. A bubble of hysterical laughter burst out of my chest. Sienna: I got it. Maya: SCREAMING. You're going to the pros, Carter! You're working with the Ironheads! Sienna: I still can't believe it. I'm staring at the offer letter waiting for someone to tell me it's an error. Maya: Zero errors. Pack your bags, babe. Your life of martyrdom is officially canceled. I pressed my palms against the cool counter, staring at the grey drizzle outside. Three years. Three years of putting my career on hold while Liam ground his way through the minor leagues. Three years of waking up at five to pack his meal prep, listening to him vent about coaches, and telling myself every sacrifice was an investment. When he made the big club, we made it. That was the deal. And today, the Ironheads organization had offered me a full-time position on their physical therapy staff. My name, on their directory, working with elite athletes. The front door clicked open, a gust of damp November air sweeping into the hallway. "Sienna?" Liam's deep voice carried over the sound of him kicking off his boots. "Babe, tell me we have food. Practice was brutal today." A familiar, protective reflex flared in my chest—the automatic instinct to grab a heating pad. But tonight, something heavy and warm settled behind my ribs instead. ‘I got the job,’ I wanted to shout. I stepped out of the kitchen with a tired, bright smile. Liam stood in the narrow hallway, shrugging out of his wool coat. He looked good—too good, with his damp dark hair curling against his forehead. "Guess what," I said, bubbling over. "Liam, you are never going to guess what just happened." He tossed his keys onto the ceramic dish with a clattering thud, eyes locked on his phone, thumb flicking across the screen. "Babe, not now," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've got a massive headache. The guys are going out to celebrate Miller's contract extension downtown, and I just need to change my shirt and head right back out." The words stuck in my throat. ‘Celebrate Miller's contract extension.' Miller—who spent half of every practice complaining about his groin strain while I designed his recovery protocols for free. "Oh," I said, the word coming out small. "Right. Well... I actually have some news. Big news. The Ironheads—" "Sienna, seriously, can this wait?" Liam interrupted, looking up with a bored expression. "You know how important these team outings are for networking. If I sit at home eating takeout while the core group bonds, management notices. I have to play the game, okay?" The kitchen tilted slightly. Play the game. How many times had I heard that phrase? My universal excuse for missing birthdays, for letting me carry the entire mental and financial load while he focused on his trajectory. "Right," I repeated, my voice dropping an octave as warmth drained from my veins, replaced by a sharp spike of adrenaline. "Of course. Networking." I watched him turn toward our bedroom. As he disappeared down the hall, his phone lit up on the counter beside my own. A text notification flashed in bold white letters. ‘Can't wait to see you tonight, babe. Make sure she thinks you're with your parents again.’ The room went dead silent. My feet moved before my brain could stop them. I walked past the doorway, my gaze locked on his screen. The contact wasn't a teammate. It was saved with a heart emoji. Another notification dropped down. A photo attachment. I recognized the background instantly—the upscale lounge downtown with the velvet booths, the place Liam swore he could never afford to take me for our anniversary. In the thumbnail, a woman with bright blonde hair and an expensive leather jacket—one I had seen sitting courtside three weeks ago—was smiling up at the camera. Chloe. A junior marketing executive for the team's sponsors. ‘Of course this was happening to me.’ Liam stepped back out of the hallway, wearing a fresh dark designer shirt—the one I had bought him for his birthday after skipping three weeks of coffee runs. He caught me standing by the counter, my eyes fixed on his phone. The color drained from his face. His jaw went rigid. "Sienna," he started, his voice dropping into that smooth, defensive register. "Sienna, let me explain. It's not—" "Stop," I said. My voice wasn't shaking. That was the most terrifying part. It was entirely steady. "Don't." "You don't understand how complicated things have been," he rushed out, taking a step toward me with hands raised. "Chloe just gets that world, Sienna. She doesn't have the baggage. She's fun. It doesn't mean I don't care about what we had—" ‘What we had.' Past tense. A heavy wave of humiliation crashed over me. I thought of every extra shift I picked up. Every time I told Maya I couldn't grab coffee because we were saving for his training camp fees. I had given him my twenties, my money, and my belief in a future that existed only in his head. And to him, I was just baggage. A bitter sound escaped my throat. *I hated him.* At least, that's what I kept telling myself. "Get out," I said quietly. "Sienna, come on, let's be rational," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the door. "We've built a life together. We can't just throw—" "Get. Out." I pointed toward the front door, my voice rising sharply. "You want to hang out with girls who don't have baggage? Fine. Pack your designer clothes and get the hell out of my apartment." "Your apartment?" he scoffed. "Who paid the security deposit, Sienna?" "I did," I snapped, fists clenched so tight my nails bit my palms. "With my clinic bonus—the one you told me to spend on groceries because you bought a custom watch. Now get out before I take your titanium stick and break it over your knee." He stared at me for three long seconds, mouth open. He had never seen me angry. I had always been his shock absorber. "You're making a huge mistake," he muttered defensively, grabbing his jacket. "You're throwing away everything we built over a few text messages." "Harmless," I echoed, a cold laugh slipping past. "Go. Before I decide to text Chloe the receipts for every pair of orthotics I've been writing off under my own name." He didn't say another word. He grabbed his gym bag, slammed the front door so hard the walls rattled, and left. The lock clicked home. Silence rushed back. I slid down the face of the kitchen counter until I sat on the cold linoleum, pulling my knees to my chest. ‘What the hell was I supposed to say to that?’ A hot tear slipped down my cheek. I had been an absolute, textbook fool. Then, my hand brushed against my back pocket. My phone buzzed. The email notification from the Ironheads was still lit up on the screen. ‘Congratulations, Ms. Carter. Your onboarding paperwork is attached below. We look forward to seeing you at the facility on Monday morning at 07:00 sharp.’ Monday morning. Professional hockey. A clean slate, a real salary, and a chance to build something that belonged entirely to me. I stared at the screen through a blur of tears, a slow, stubborn spark igniting deep in my chest. He thought he had left me with nothing. He had no idea who he had just let walk away. I wiped my cheeks, took a deep, shuddering breath, and stood up. Liam was history. Monday, I was going to war.