Chapter 23
Kiyomi POV
The cold in the upper bowl of the St. Jude Ice Arena was a dry, preserved ache that settled into the joints of my fingers.
Four in the afternoon. The mid-January sky beyond the clerestory glass was a slab of dull slate, pressing down on South Portland with the threat of more sleet.
Down on the ice, the Sentinels were running an open scouting scrimmage, the concussive thuds of composite sticks and bodies hitting the dasher boards echoing into the empty rafters.
Fourteen compliance hours remained on Mauricio Leal’s ledger. Exactly five weeks until the regular season finale and the start of the conference tournament.
I sat ten rows up behind the home penalty box, my spiral notebook open across my knees, a collection of dynamic force-vector graphs clipped to my board.
Down on the frozen sheet, Mauricio was an overwhelming physical presence.
Number four in black practice wool, skating with a fluid, terrifying violence that made the air behind the glass hum.
He pivoted off his right outside edge with zero mechanical hitch, stepped into an oncoming forward, and delivered a clean, shoulder-to-chest check that rattled the acrylic pane twenty feet below me.
Two rows down sat three men in dark team parkas bearing the embroidered logos of Calgary, Detroit, and Edmonton. Between them sat a beat reporter with a regional press pass pinned to his lapel.
"Leal’s up to six on the mid-term consensus board," the Calgary scout said, his voice carrying easily through the quiet stands.
He scribbled a note on a blue evaluation grid.
"His lateral transitions are completely fixed.
He's playing with discipline. If he clears the medical at the Buffalo combine, our front office will take his rights at eight without blinking. "
"You'll have to stash him in the Western League for two years," the reporter remarked, blowing on a paper cup of black coffee. "Toughen up his puck-handling in the minors."
"We'll put him in Red Deer or send him north to Alberta," the scout replied with a flat, businesslike shrug. "Sign the entry-level maximum in June, ship him three thousand miles away, and let him live in a team hotel until he's ready for the big club. The kid has no leverage."
A cold, greasy drop opened in the pit of my stomach.
A sudden, sharp wave of nausea rolled up into the back of my throat, bitter and acidic. My head swam with a momentary wash of dizziness that made the lines on my notebook blur into gray smears.
I swallowed hard, forcing the sour bile down, reaching for the plastic bottle of water beside my boot. My fingers were shaking as I unscrewed the cap and took a small, freezing sip.
Just exhaustion, I told myself, pressing a hand flat against the wool of my coat over my lower stomach. Too much black coffee and three consecutive nights running biomechanical code.
Deep inside the zippered pocket of my leather satchel lay a stiff, cream-colored envelope bearing the embossed seal of the United States Olympic Training Facility in Colorado Springs.
The letter had arrived in my department mailbox that morning: a formal invitation to the final round of on-site interviews for the biomechanics fellowship, commencing the first week of June.
I looked back down at the ice.
Mauricio was gliding back to the blue line, his chest heaving, steam rolling off his bare neck in thick plumes, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
The gulf between our lives opened up like a crevasse in the glacier.
He was destined for private jets, multimillion-dollar rookie allocations, and distant Canadian cities where sixty thousand fans screamed his name. I was heading to a high-altitude laboratory in Colorado to catalog tendon load tolerances.
We were living on borrowed time in a converted carriage house, and the clock was winding down to zero.
* * *
The cab of the F-150 was suffocatingly quiet.
Mauricio drove with his left hand resting on the top of the steering wheel, his wet hair curling against the collar of his black team hoodie, the smell of fresh cedar soap and cold sweat radiating from his frame.
The dashboard heater blew a dry, steady gust of seventy-degree air across our knees, but the warmth did nothing to melt the frost forming along the inside of my ribs.
He reached across the center console.
His large, calloused right hand came to rest flat on my thigh, his thumb brushing through the heavy denim of my jeans with familiar, heavy warmth.
I went rigid.
My knees shifted an inch toward the passenger door, my muscles locking against his palm. I turned my head, fixing my gaze on the salt-crusted snowbanks blurring past along Cottage Road.
Mauricio didn't remove his hand. His fingers tightened, gripping my thigh with quiet, measuring authority.
He didn't speak until he swung the truck into the gravel drive behind the carriage house. He slammed the gearshift into park with a sharp mechanical thud, cut the ignition, and unbuckled his seatbelt in one violent motion.
The silence inside the cabin was instant and heavy.
He turned his massive frame in the driver's seat, his dark umber eyes locking onto the side of my face with a flat, dangerous intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"You didn't say three words during the drive from the rink," he rasped, his voice low, scraping over the quiet. "You pulled your leg away from my hand. What is it, Kiyomi?"
My throat felt parched, tight as a knotted rope. I kept my hands clamped around the leather strap of my satchel.
"Nothing," I whispered.
"Don't lie to me." He leaned across the console, his presence blotting out the pale dusk light through the windshield. His jaw was set, the masseter muscle jumping in his cheek. "You sat in the stands during breakout drills looking like you were watching an execution. What did someone say to you?"
The dam broke.
The fear, the nausea, and the sickening reality of our borrowed time surged into my throat, stripping away every ounce of my clinical composure.
I reached into my bag, yanked the cream-colored envelope from the pocket, and tossed it flat against the dashboard.
"The Calgary scouts were sitting two rows down from me, Mauricio," I said, my voice shaking with raw, ragged emotion that I couldn't suppress.
"They're planning to take your rights at number eight.
They're talking about shipping you three thousand miles away to Alberta in June, parking you in team hotels, and locking you into a developmental league. "
Mauricio didn't look at the envelope. His eyes stayed pinned to my face.
"And that envelope?" he asked, his voice dead level.
"My fellowship interview," I choked out, a sharp ache clawing behind my eyes as the tears threatened to spill.
"Colorado Springs. In June. While you're in Canada or New York or Detroit.
We have five weeks left of this season, Mauricio.
Five weeks, and then the draft happens, and the real world starts.
I can't sit in your bed every night pretending that we aren't living on an expiration date. "
My fingernails dug into the leather of my bag.
"I don't want to be an anchor dragging you down from the contract your family needs," I whispered, looking down at my hands. "And I can't survive being discarded when the ice melts."
* * *
Mauricio didn't answer with words.
He lunged across the console, his large hand catching my upper arm, and shoved his driver's door wide open. He didn't let me walk. He hauled me across the seat, out into the bitter fifteen-degree dusk, his boots hitting the packed gravel in heavy, furious strides.
He pulled me up the porch steps, shoved the heavy timber door open, dragged me into the warm entryway, and slammed the door shut with a violent boom that rattled the glass transom.
The brass deadbolt turned with a vicious click.
Before my breath could return, Mauricio spun me around, backing me flat against the solid oak of the front door.
His massive six-foot-four frame pressed into mine, caging me against the wood. His equipment duffel hit the floorboards with a dull crash.
His large, calloused hands came up, cupping both sides of my face with rough, desperate urgency, his thick fingers tangling into the hair at my temples, tilting my head back until I had nowhere left to look except the dark, raging fire in his eyes.
"Stop writing endings we didn't agree on, Kiyomi," he snarled down at me, his voice a low, furious rumble that shook the frame behind my head.
"Mauricio—"
"Shut up and listen to me," he commanded, his chest heaving against mine, his heart battering his ribs with terrifying power. "Look at me. Look at my eyes."
My lips parted on a shallow, ragged inhale, my hands coming up instinctively to grip the thick wool of his hoodie over his forearms.
"Good girl," he growled softly, his thumbs smoothing across my wind-chapped cheekbones, wiping away the single tear that had escaped my lash line. "Now breathe."
His face was inches from mine, his breath hot, smelling of mint and raw exertion, washing over my trembling mouth.
"You think some scout in an arena gets to decide where I live?
" he rasped, his voice thick with unyielding, possessive conviction.
"I had a meeting with Lindqvist and the Western scouts yesterday afternoon.
I told them to shove their Canadian rights up their asses.
I told them if they draft me, I walk into free agency.
I don't give a damn about Alberta, and I don't give a damn about prestige. "
My heart stopped in my throat. "You... what?"
"I stay in the East, or I sign in Chicago," he said, his forehead coming down to rest against mine, his grip on my jaw absolute.
"Chicago has the Olympic sports science institute.
Boston is an hour from Maine. Wherever you go, whatever program you choose, I follow you.
You hear me? You are not my collegiate chapter, Kiyomi. You are my home."
The words hit my chest with the force of an avalanche, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs.
"Mauricio," I breathed, my fingers tightening in the fabric of his sleeves.
"Don't you ever say you're an anchor," he whispered, his voice cracking on a ruined, desperate note. "You're the only reason I'm still standing on two feet. You think I could ever let you go?"
He didn't wait for my answer.
His mouth crashed down onto mine in a fierce, breathless kiss that tasted of salt, iron, and absolute, unconditional possession.
His lips were rough, demanding, and desperate, claiming my mouth with a hunger that obliterated every shadow of doubt in my soul.
I arched into his weight, my arms locking around his neck, my small frame pressed flat between his heavy chest and the timber door, holding on to him as if the world were burning down outside the glass.
He kissed me until my knees went weak, until my ribs burned for air, his hands tangled in my hair, anchoring me to his skin with a devotion so terrifyingly fierce that I knew, whatever storm was coming, he would never let me fall.