Chapter 21
Kiyomi POV
The subterranean auxiliary lab was locked at twenty-eight degrees, smelling of floor bleach, cold steel, and the sour frost rising from the hydraulic ice-treadmill.
It was the final week of December. Winter break had emptied the brick dormitories of St. Jude, leaving the campus hushed under three feet of crusty snow, but the varsity athletic complex remained a military installation.
The Sentinels were five days out from the Holiday Invitational tournament, and Coach Henrik Lindqvist was running the roster through three-a-day conditioning sessions that left the ice scarred with blood and chipped paint.
Eighteen compliance hours remained on Mauricio Leal’s ledger.
I stood behind the stainless-steel rolling cart, my clipboard resting against my forearm, my white lab coat buttoned straight to my throat.
Across the rubber matting, Dr. Warren Hayes leaned against the diagnostic monitor, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes.
Mauricio stood on the dual force plates, dressed in gray practice shorts and a damp long-sleeved thermal, his wrists freshly wrapped in black cloth tape.
He didn't look at my mouth. He didn't look at my throat.
His face was a slab of carved granite, his dark umber eyes fixed on the calibration target on the opposite wall.
"The symmetry on his right heel strike is up nine percent, Dr. Hayes," I said, my voice smooth, clipped, and devoid of inflection.
I clicked my pen twice, tapping the edge of the printed graph.
"The lateral compensation has resolved. He is clearing the forty-five-degree cut without structural hesitation. "
"Good," Hayes muttered, adjusting his glasses to peer at the force curve. "The clearinghouse accepted the mid-term upload without additional inquiry. Director Vance is satisfied. Five more sessions, Miss Blake, and we can certify his file for the winter term."
"Understood, Dr. Hayes."
Mauricio stepped off the force plates. The rubber soles of his training shoes made a dull, heavy slap on the matting. He grabbed his towel from the metal examination table, wiped the sweat from his jaw, and looked directly past my shoulder as if I were a piece of measuring equipment.
"I'm due on the main ice for special teams review, Coach Hayes," Mauricio said, his gravelly baritone flat, level, and distant.
"Go ahead, Mauricio," Hayes replied without looking up from the screen.
Mauricio grabbed his black gear bag, pushed through the heavy steel door, and vanished up the concrete stairs without a backward glance.
The door clicked shut. My lungs slowly released the air I had been holding behind my teeth, a dull ache spreading through the muscles of my upper back.
Maintaining that fortress of professional distance while six inches separated us was exhausting.
It felt like walking a tightrope over jagged rocks, pretending my pulse didn't jump whenever the scent of his skin cut through the bleach, pretending my hands hadn't memorized every scar along his collarbone.
Twenty minutes later, after signing Hayes’s paperwork, I drove my sedan south along the salt-crusted curves of Cottage Road.
Mauricio’s black F-150 was already parked in the gravel drive, snow melting off its heavy mud flaps.
* * *
The transition from the arena’s cold concrete to the carriage house was a shock of warmth that made my knees loosen.
Inside the apartment, the cast-iron radiators hummed a steady, clanking melody against the winter draft. The air smelled of freshly ground dark roast coffee, toasted sourdough, and the seasoned cedar logs burning low in the small brick hearth.
I set my satchel on the entryway bench, kicked off my winter boots, and stepped onto the warm pine floorboards.
Mauricio was standing at the kitchen island, his back to me.
He had stripped off his practice gear. He wore only a pair of faded black fleece pants, his bare torso glistening with the heat of a quick shower. His thick shoulders and the dense, cut musculature of his back were on full display in the morning light, a line of steam rising off his damp hair.
He didn't turn around when I entered, but his posture softened. The rigid, combative angle of his neck vanished, his broad shoulders dropping by an inch.
"Tea is on the counter," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrated across the kitchen island.
I walked over, my bare feet quiet on the wood. On the soapstone counter sat a heavy ceramic mug filled with peppermint tea, steeped to the exact pale amber hue I preferred, cooled just enough that I could drink it without scorching my tongue.
Beside it lay a white plate with three scrambled eggs, sea salt, and two thick slices of buttered sourdough toast.
"You didn't have to cook, Mauricio," I murmured, wrapping both hands around the warm mug.
He turned around, wiping his large hands on a dark kitchen towel. The unvarnished warmth in his eyes made my breath hitch in the quiet room. Up close, the thin pink scar slicing through his left brow was faint against his olive skin, his jaw relaxed, stubble dark and clean.
"You've been up since four," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly cadence that belonged only to this room. "You don't eat when you're looking at spreadsheets. Sit down."
I pulled out the high wooden stool and sat, resting my elbows on the counter. I wore one of his dark gray thermal henleys; the shoulders were so wide the neckline slipped down, exposing my left collarbone and the curve of my shoulder to the warm air.
Mauricio tossed the towel onto the counter. He walked around the island, stepping directly behind my stool.
He didn't say a word. His large, calloused hands came to rest gently on the sides of my neck, his thumbs finding the tight, knotted muscles at the base of my skull.
He pressed in slow, firm circles.
The tension that had locked my shoulders during the lab with Dr. Hayes drained out of me in a long, shuddering sigh. My chin dropped toward my chest, my eyelids growing heavy as the heat from his rough palms sank into my skin.
"You took too much load from Hayes this morning," he murmured, his fingers working their way down the line of my traps, kneading the stiffness from my muscles.
"Hayes is trying to protect the department," I whispered, resting my forehead against his bare forearm.
Mauricio leaned down, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth finding the sensitive hollow where my neck met my shoulder. He pressed a slow, scorching kiss into my skin, the scrape of his morning stubble rough and delicious against my flesh.
"Good girl," he rumbled against my pulse point. "Eat your toast before it gets cold."
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Mauricio was down the short hallway in the bathroom, the sound of tearing tape muffled by the door as he prepped his wrists for the afternoon skate.
I picked up my empty plate and set it in the porcelain sink, rinsing the crumbs away under hot water. I walked over to the heavy oak desk in the corner of the living room to retrieve a clean flash drive from his drawer.
The surface of the desk was immaculate, organized with the same ruthless precision he brought to the ice. A single black leather folder lay open beside his laptop, illuminated by the pale winter light.
I reached for the wooden tray of drives, and my gaze caught on the heading of the top document.
Irrevocable Irrevocable Trust Agreement — Beneficiary: Cruz, Rafael.
The paper was thick, embossed with the seal of a Portland estate law firm, dated three days ago.
My fingers froze against the polished oak.
Beneath the legal preamble was a drafted direct-deposit allocation linked to his prospective National Hockey League Standard Player Contract.
Initial Signing Bonus Allocation: $47,500.00 (Fifty Percent of Maximum Allowable Entry-Level Signing Consideration) to be deposited directly into the New England Neuro-Restorative Escrow Account for the specialized long-term rehabilitation and residential therapy of Rafael Cruz.
Beneath that, a second allocation directed forty percent of his guaranteed rookie base salary to Elena Ramos to pay off the adapted vehicle loan and secondary medical liens.
Mauricio had signed the bottom in bold, unhesitating black ink.
He had kept ten percent.
A player projected to go sixth overall in the national draft—a defenseman whose name was whispered in front offices from Chicago to Montreal—had negotiated his entire financial future to ensure he walked away with barely enough to pay rent on a one-bedroom apartment.
He hadn't mentioned the trust once. He hadn't complained about the four-thousand-two-hundred-dollar monthly invoices, and he hadn't asked for praise. He had simply taken the crushing weight of his brother’s ruined spine, strapped it across his own massive shoulders, and signed away his youth to carry it.
A tight, violent ache seized the back of my throat. My eyes burned, hot moisture threatening to spill over my lashes as my pulse thudded slow, heavy, and profound behind my breastbone.
Footsteps approached from the hallway.
I looked up.
Mauricio stood in the threshold, dressed in a fresh black Sentinel hoodie and training shorts, his heavy equipment bag slung over his right shoulder.
He was buckling the strap of his wristwatch with his teeth, his dark hair still damp, looking like an ordinary athlete heading to an afternoon scrimmage.
He saw me standing by the desk. His gaze dropped to the open manila folder, then slowly rose to meet mine.
He didn't flinch, and he didn't offer an excuse.
A quiet, steady stillness settled over his features, his umber eyes searching my face, reading the raw, unshielded emotion written across my features.
"Time for afternoon skate, Kiyomi," he said softly, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that filled the quiet room.
I walked across the pine floorboards, my bare feet making no sound, and stopped inches from his chest. I didn't say a word about the trust. I didn't mention the forty-seven thousand dollars.
I brought my hand up, my small fingers flattening against the cotton over his heart, feeling the heavy, unbroken cadence beneath his ribs.
He reached out with his free arm, wrapping his hand around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He leaned down, pressing his lips firmly to the crown of my head, breathing in the scent of my hair before resting his chin against my temple.
The realization hit me with the weight of an iron anchor dropped into deep water.
The danger wasn't getting caught by Arthur Vance, and the danger wasn't losing my fellowship in Colorado.
The danger was that I had wholly, irreversibly surrendered my heart to this man, and there was no coming back from the edge.