Ice Cold Alibi

Chapter 5

Thursday morning arrived with the sort of aggressive, icy rain that made you question every life choice leading up to your current location.

I murmured to myself, wrestling with the stubborn lock of my locker in the staff room as a fresh drip of water leaked directly from the ceiling vent onto my favorite blouse.

By the time I marched down the corridor toward the rehabilitation wing with my arms full of resistance bands, hot packs, and an oversized clipboard, my mood was hovering somewhere between homicidal and catatonic. The training room was empty save for the low, rhythmic hum of the cryotherapy chamber and the clatter of a cleaning crew vacuuming the main corridor outside.

I dumped my gear onto the steel counter, popped the top of my travel mug, and stared bitterly at the grey drizzle streaking the high windows.

The heavy glass door swung open.

Roman stepped inside, shaking the rain from the shoulders of his heavy black coat like a dark, disgruntled animal. He was wearing a charcoal zip-up hoodie, his dark hair damp and curling slightly against the jagged scar over his brow. He didn't look like an NHL alternate captain right now; he looked tired—the deep, structural exhaustion of a man carrying an entire franchise on a surgically repaired knee.

"You're early," he observed, tossing his duffel bag onto a chrome bench with a heavy thud.

"And you're speaking," I shot back, turning to face him with my hands braced on the edge of the counter. "A miraculous start to the day. Did you remember your assigned stability exercises last night, Vance, or did you spend your evening scrolling through social media like a teenager?"

Roman stopped dead. He slowly turned his head, those stagnant river-water eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, calculating intensity that could have stripped paint off the walls.

"You've got a lot of nerve, Carter," he murmured, taking two long, measured strides across the room until he was standing uncomfortably close to my workstation. "Most people in this building look at me like I'm made of spun glass. You talk to me like I'm a recalcitrant sophomore in detention."

I didn't back down. I squared my shoulders, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze directly. "If you act like a recalcitrant sophomore who refuses to ice his joint, I will treat you like one. I don't care how many letters are stitched onto your jersey. In this room, my word is law."

A slow, arrogant smile touched the corner of his mouth—not the cold smirk he flashed reporters, but something sharper, warmer, and infinitely more dangerous.

"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that scraped against my nerve endings. "Your word is law."

My pulse betrayed me, hammering a frantic, traitorous rhythm against my ribs. I turned sharply toward the supply cart, grabbing a heavy blue resistance band with fingers that felt suspiciously clumsy.

"Sit on the table, Vance. We're starting with lateral extensions, and if I hear a single complaint, I'm doubling your sets."

He didn't move for a long second, his gaze tracing the line of my posture with an annoying, heavy scrutiny before he finally complied, swinging his tall frame onto the edge of the hydraulic table. The leather groaned under his weight.

For the next twenty minutes, the room was filled with the rhythmic snap of rubber bands, the controlled count of my voice, and the sound of his deep, even breathing. For all his brooding exterior, Roman was relentless once he started. He didn't complain, and he didn't slack off. He pushed through the micro-adjustments with a grim, single-minded focus that I couldn't help but respect, even if it infuriated me how easily he commanded the space.

"You're overcompensating with your right hip again," I noted, stepping in close and placing two fingers lightly against his pelvis to correct his alignment.

His skin was burning hot beneath the thin cotton of his joggers. The moment my fingers touched him, the air between us seemed to instantly densify, snapping with a sudden, electric friction.

Roman went completely rigid.

His dark eyes snapped up, locking onto my face with a terrifying intensity. He didn't pull away, but his breathing hitched, the muscles in his jaw ticking once, twice, in rapid succession.

My hand lingered on his hip for a fraction of a second too long—a dangerous, unprofessional hesitation that my brain screamed at me to correct. I jerked my hand back as if I'd touched a live wire, taking a hasty step away from the table.

"That's... that's enough for today's mobility sequence," I stammered, my voice pitching up a fraction of an octave. I grabbed my clipboard, burying my face behind the paper. "Ice for twenty minutes. No exceptions."

Roman didn't answer right away. He sat there on the edge of the table, his chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, his gaze heavy and burning as it tracked my frantic retreat toward my desk.

"Sienna," he said softly.

My name. He hadn't called me Carter in three days. The casual, intimate use of my first name hit me like a physical blow, freezing me in my tracks halfway across the room.

I slowly turned back to face him. "What?"

Roman stood up from the table, towering over me in the narrow aisle between the equipment racks. Before he could speak, a sudden, frantic pounding echoed against the heavy glass door of the rehabilitation wing.

We both turned.

Dr. Vance—the actual head of department, freshly returned from his morning knee surgery—stood outside the frosted glass. But he wasn't alone. Behind him stood the general manager of the Ironheads, flanked by two members of the team's public relations team, their faces pale and tight with professional dread.

The door flew open before I could even take a step forward.

"Roman," the general manager said, his voice tight and shaking with suppressed panic as he ignored my presence entirely. "You need to see this right now. Someone just leaked a security still to the national hockey network."

Roman's brow furrowed, his dark eyes shifting from the GM back to me. "What are you talking about?"

"It's a photo from the parking garage last night," the PR director chimed in, holding up an active tablet with a trembling hand. "You and... and a woman. Entering a private town car together after hours."

The blood drained entirely from my face.

My mind flashed back to my old apartment, to Liam's phone lighting up on the counter, to Chloe—the junior marketing executive for the team's corporate sponsors—smiling up at the camera in a downtown lounge.

The general manager stepped further into the room, his eyes finally landing on Roman, before shifting grimly toward me.

"Roman, the league is launching an immediate ethics inquiry," the GM said, his voice dropping into a harsh, echoing whisper. "Because the woman in the car with you isn't your girlfriend, and she isn't a team official. According to corporate compliance, she's registered as a high-level sponsor representative... and she's currently engaged to starting forward Liam Hayes."