The Captain’s Secret Clause

MARA. “You have three seconds to get off my doorstep before I call the cops,” I said. Roman Vale didn’t move. He stood in the dim light of the hallway, the rain dripping from the ends of his hair straight onto his shoulders. “You won’t call them,” he said. His voice was low, rough around the edges, the same voice I had heard barking orders on the ice for three years. The same voice I had learned to hate with everything in me. “Try me, Vale.” I held the edge of the door, my knuckles turning white. “I’m tired, wet, and I’ve spent the last six hours writing a piece about how you cost the Reapers another game tonight. I’ve had my fill of your face for one day.” He didn’t flinch. Three years ago, he would have smirked. He would have tossed back a quick, arrogant reply and leaned against the frame until I lost my temper. But the Roman Vale standing in front of me didn't smirk. He looked exhausted. He held a thick yellow folder against his chest, clutching it with both hands as if a strong breeze might tear it away. “It’s about your father, Mara,” he said. My heart did a sudden, violent flip, but I kept my grip tight on the door. “Leave my father out of your mouth.” “I can’t.” He took a half-step forward, stopping just short of the doorway. “He left something behind. A trust.” “My father died six months ago,” I said, “He left us nothing because we had nothing left. You made sure of that when you ruined David.” Roman took a slow breath. He stared at me, his gray eyes unreadable. “He didn’t leave money, Mara. He left evidence. Everything about what happened three years ago. The full league inquiry. The unedited footage. The names.” The air felt thick all of a sudden. “You’re lying,” I whispered. “I’m not.” He held out the yellow folder. The paper was already damp from his wet hands. “It’s locked in a sealed trust with his lawyers. I can’t open it. Neither can you.” “Why?” I demanded, glaring at the paper. “If it’s my dad’s, it belongs to David and me.” “Because of the condition your father put on it,” Roman said. He didn't look down. He kept his eyes locked on mine. “The trust only releases its contents to me. And only under one condition.” “What condition?” “I have to be legally married,” Roman said quietly. “For one full year.” A dead silence settled between us, filled only by the rhythmic drip of rainwater hitting the carpet. I stared at him, waiting for the joke. Waiting for the punchline that always came with Roman Vale. But his face remained hard. A short, bitter laugh burst out of my chest. “You’re insane.” “Mara—” “You are out of your absolute mind,” I said, stepping forward until we were inches apart. I had to look up to meet his eyes, but I didn't care. The anger that I had kept neatly tucked away for three years boiled up, hot and fast. “You destroy my brother’s career and turned the entire city against him. You sit back and watch my family fall apart while you sign a fifty-million-dollar contract and now you come to my apartment in the middle of the night asking me to marry you?” “I need a wife,” Roman said. His tone was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion, which only made me madder. “Go hire one!” I spat. “You have enough money! Find some desperate girl in a bar, pay her off, and get your hands on whatever stupid paper you want!” “It has to be you,” he said. “Why?” I yelled. “Why on earth would it ever be me?” “Because you’re the only person who cares enough about David to make the press believe it,” he answered softly. “And because your father made sure the lawyers would check.” I shook my head, backing up a step. “No. Never. I have one rule, Roman. One rule I’ve kept since the day David was thrown off the team. I don’t deal with hockey players. And I certainly don’t deal with snake-faced, backstabbing trash like you.” I waited for him to snap. I waited for the arrogance, the anger, the cold dismissiveness that made him the most hated captain in the league. I wanted him to fight back. I wanted him to give me a reason to slam the door right into his face. He just stood there. Rain ran down the side of his cheek, dropping from his chin onto his dark jacket. He didn't blink or raise his voice. “You can call me whatever you want,” Roman said quietly. “You can write whatever you want in the papers tomorrow. Call me a villain. Call me a snake. I don't care, Mara. I’ve been called worse by better people.” “Then leave,” I snapped. “I can’t fix what happened to your family,” he continued, ignoring my words completely. “I can’t bring back the last three years. I can’t make your dad come back. But that folder has the truth inside it. The real truth. It’s the only thing left that can save David. It’s the only way he gets his life back.” He extended his hands, offering the damp folder to me again. “One year,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave, . “Twelve months of pretending to be my wife. We live under the same roof. We show up to the team events. We let the cameras take their pictures. At the end of three hundred and sixty-five days, the trust opens. I give you the evidence. You clear David’s name, you take half of everything I own, and you walk away. You never have to look at my face again.” My throat felt tight. I looked down at the yellow folder. David’s face flashed in my mind—the way he looked now, sitting in his apartment, staring at old game tapes of a life he wasn't allowed to live anymore. Three years of watching my brother turn into a ghost. Three years of writing stupid sports columns while the man who ruined him lived in a luxury penthouse overlooking the bay. I looked back up at Roman. His shoulders were tense, but his posture was straight. He was waiting. Not begging—Roman Vale didn't beg. “I hate you,” I whispered, “I will hate you every single day of that year.” “I know,” Roman said. “I won’t cook for you. I won’t clean for you and I certainly won’t speak to you unless there’s a camera in the room.” “Understood.” “And the second that year is over, I am going to use that evidence to destroy whatever is left of your career.” A faint look crossed his face, gone before I could even process it. “Deal,” he said. I snatched the folder out of his hands, the damp paper cold against my fingers. I stepped backward, pulling the wooden door with me. “Get out of my hallway,” I gritted out through tightly clenched teeth, my heart pounding against my ribs. Roman didn't say another word. He turned around slowly and walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the stairs, his boots silent on the carpet. I slammed the door shut, locking the deadbolt with a metallic click that echoed through my tiny apartment. I leaned my back against the wood, sliding down until my knees hit my chest, clutching the damp folder tightly against my ribs. My breathing was ragged, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the paper. I had done it. I had just sold a year of my life to the devil. I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath, trying to steady the wild racing of my pulse. But as I sat there in the dark entryway, a cold drop of water soaked through my shirt from the folder—and the faint, sharp scent of expensive cedar and rain drifted through the cracks of the door, filling the hallway long after his footsteps had faded away.