Chapter 24
Mauricio POV
The freezing drizzle falling over the loading dock runway smelled of wet asphalt, diesel exhaust, and the chemical sting of melting salt.
Five in the afternoon. The overhead floodlights along the concrete underpass flickered with a dull amber hum, buzzing against the January gloom.
I had just walked out of a ninety-minute defensive film session with Henrik Lindqvist, my equipment bag slung heavy across my left trap, my knuckles raw from the morning skate.
My boots made heavy, wet thuds on the ribbed concrete as I headed toward the iron gate that led to the players' lot.
A shadow moved from behind the industrial recycling bins near the mechanical bay.
Julian Cross stepped directly into the center of the lane.
He wore a tailored charcoal wool topcoat, a silk scarf knotted tight at his throat, and black leather driving gloves. His slicked-back hair glistened with droplets of freezing rain. He held a thin, foil-lined umbrella in his left hand, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth.
The sight of him hit my breastbone like an unpadded composite stick.
My vision tunneled instantly. The gray concrete walls blurred into black streaks, the air freezing in the back of my throat. A cold, violent rush of blood surged behind my eardrums, drowning out the drone of the arena compressors with a deafening roar.
The ghost of that October afternoon three years ago slammed into my ribs: the crack of frozen timber on the Scarborough pond, Rafael’s breathless, choked scream, the sickening stillness of his legs in the slush.
Cross smiled, taking the cigar from his mouth with two gloved fingers.
"Evening, Captain," Cross said. His voice was smooth as warm oil, carrying the greasy familiarity of a predator who had found a blood trail. "I figured I'd catch you before you headed back to your little domestic sanctuary."
My boots locked onto the pavement. I didn't shift my bag. I stood there, six feet, four inches of motionless iron, my jaw clamping shut so hard the roots of my back molars flared with white-hot pain.
"You're trespassing, Cross," I said. The gravel in my voice was flat, scraped raw from the bottom of my lungs. "Vance revoked your facility credential after the gala."
"Vance revoked a guest pass, Mauricio," Cross replied, stepping two paces closer, his polished leather shoes clicking on the wet concrete. "He didn't revoke the public right-of-way. And he certainly didn't revoke the public records from the Scarborough municipal court."
He reached into his breast pocket, producing a folded white document with an official blue notary seal stamped across the margin.
"Your mother signed two separate personal liability waivers after the accident," Cross murmured, his eyes glittering with cold malice.
"And your bank statements show forty-two hundred dollars leaving your stipend account every thirty days like clockwork.
Promissory notes against an unearned professional contract.
That's a direct violation of NCAA Bylaw 12.
1.2 regarding unapproved athletic financing. "
* * *
The air in the concrete underpass went dead.
I took one slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until my shadow swallowed him. My broad shoulders blocked out the amber floodlight behind me, casting Cross in total gray gloom.
Every nerve ending in my arms burned with the violent urge to tear him apart.
I could have dropped my bag, driven my forearm through his sternum, and broken his ribs against the corrugated loading bay doors before he could draw breath to scream.
The thought was sweet, heavy, and intoxicating in my blood.
If you hit him, you're done.
The reality hit me with the blunt force of a puck to the face. If I laid one finger on an accredited scout, Vance would call campus police before I reached the street. The draft combine invite in Buffalo would be rescinded. The ninety-five-thousand-dollar signing bonus would vanish into thin air.
Rafael’s motorized chair, his hydrotherapy harness, his room at the Scarborough clinic—all of it would be ripped away by Friday.
My hands stayed buried deep inside the pockets of my black team jacket, my fingers curling into fists so tight the knuckles cracked, the nails biting through the lining into my palms. Cold sweat broke out along my hairline, trickling down the side of my neck.
"What do you want, Julian?" I growled, the words forced past clenched teeth.
Cross’s smile broadened, showing a row of capped white teeth. He tapped the folded document against his knuckles.
"I want the standard ten percent marketing and commercial representation rider," Cross said. "Exclusive off-ice management rights before the first round in June. You sign my agreement, and this file stays in my safe. The NCAA compliance board never hears a whisper about your mother’s liens, your brother’s clinic invoices, or that stress fracture you've been nursing on your right leg. "
The mention of the leg sent a sharp, icy spike through my chest.
He was fishing, piecing together rumors from the pre-season, but he had the Scarborough debt locked in his grip.
"And if I tell you to go to hell?" I rasped.
Cross’s eyes narrowed, the smooth facade slipping to reveal the venomous, small-minded rot beneath.
"Then I take the file to the national scouting directors tomorrow morning," he whispered, leaning an inch closer, his voice dropping into a poisonous purr. "And then I pay a visit to the Dean of Health Sciences regarding Miss Kiyomi Blake."
The name struck my ears like a bomb detonating in an enclosed room.
The blood drained from my face, replaced by a suffocating, blinding heat that roared through my jugular vein.
"She defended you with a lot of passion at the gala, Mauricio," Cross said, his eyes mocking me.
"It would be an absolute tragedy if her department chair found out she was manipulating biomechanical force data to shield an injured athlete from mandatory medical withdrawal.
Her Colorado Olympic fellowship wouldn't survive the afternoon. "
My vision went completely red.
The restraint shattered.
My left hand whipped out of my jacket pocket like a striking snake, my calloused fingers burying into the thick cashmere of Cross’s lapels. With one violent, effortless jerk, I lifted the older man six inches off the pavement and slammed him backward against the corrugated steel delivery gate.
The metal groaned under the impact, a booming rattle echoing through the empty underpass.
Cross’s umbrella dropped to the ground, splashing into a puddle of dirty slush. His face drained to the color of wet chalk, his eyes bulging as my forearm drove hard across his collarbone, pinning his two-hundred-pound frame against the steel.
I leaned down until my mouth was a fraction of an inch from his ear.
"Listen to me, you piece of garbage," I snarled, my voice dropping into a low, terrifying rasp that vibrated straight through his ribs. "You can come after me. You can send your files to the draft board. You can burn my career to the ground, and I will take every single hit without flinching."
I pressed my weight forward, feeling his breath hitch in his throat as the cashmere bunched tight against his neck.
"But if you say her name again," I whispered, each word a slow, lethal vow, "if you put one foot near her laboratory or step into her path on this campus, I won't call a lawyer.
I won't call Director Vance. I will hunt you down in the street, and I will make sure you never walk into an athletic arena on two legs again. Understand me?"
Cross choked, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrist, terror flickering behind his bloodshot eyes. He nodded frantically, his jaw trembling.
I held him pinned for three long, agonizing seconds, letting the cold drizzle soak into his hair.
Then I shoved him away with enough force that his knees buckled, sending him stumbling into the brick wall.
I picked up my gear bag, turned my back on him, and walked out into the freezing rain without looking back.
* * *
My hands were shaking so violently against the steering wheel that the truck drifted an inch toward the center line on Cottage Road.
The dashboard clock read 5:42 PM. The wipers dragged across the slush on the windshield with a rhythmic, scratching screech that grated on my raw nerves.
My chest was heaving in ragged, shallow pulls, my lungs starving for air. The phantom guilt of Rafael’s accident was an iron weight pressing down on my skull, mixing with the sickening, toxic threat to Kiyomi’s fellowship. Cross was a cornered rat, and cornered rats bit whatever was closest.
I needed air. I needed something solid before the walls of my life caved in.
I pulled into the gravel drive of the carriage house, killed the engine, and didn't even bother grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat.
I took the porch steps two at a time, shoved the heavy timber door open, and stepped inside.
The warmth of the apartment washed over my face, smelling of seasoned cedar logs, fresh tea, and her clean, almond-scented soap. The radiators hissed their steady, domestic rhythm against the cold dark outside.
Kiyomi was sitting on the charcoal sofa.
She was curled up in my thick black thermal shirt, her bare legs tucked under a gray wool blanket, a white ceramic mug cradled in her hands. Her dark hair was pinned up loosely, soft tendrils framing her face.
When the latch clicked, she looked up toward the entryway.
A soft, brilliant smile broke across her features, her honey-brown eyes lighting up with an unshielded, effortless warmth that cut straight through the black fog suffocating my brain.
"Hey," she whispered, setting her mug on the coffee table. "You're late. I made peppermint—"
I dropped my keys onto the floorboards with a sharp clatter.
I crossed the room in three heavy strides, my boots making no sound on the braided rug.
Before she could finish the sentence, before she could ask about the tension coiled in my shoulders, I reached down, hooked my hands beneath her arms, and hauled her straight off the sofa into my chest.
She let out a tiny, startled gasp, her hands instantly coming up to grip my wet jacket, her fingers tangling into the fabric over my ribs.
I didn't let her feet touch the floor. I wrapped my arms around her waist, crushing her slender frame against me with terrifying, desperate strength, burying my face into the warm hollow of her neck.
Her skin was hot, soft, and fragrant, contrasting sharply with the freezing rain dripping from my hair.
I breathed her in, dragging the scent of her hair into my starving lungs, holding her so tightly our heartbeats collided through our clothes in a frantic, irregular rhythm. My hands were trembling against the small of her back, a hard, uncontrollable shudder running through my massive frame.
"Mauricio," she whispered, her voice laced with sudden, acute concern, her fingers sliding up the back of my neck to cradle the base of my skull. "What happened? You're freezing."
I didn't answer her. I couldn't.
I buried my mouth against the sensitive line of her throat, letting the rough scrape of my stubble press into her flesh, my arms tightening around her hips until she was anchored completely to my chest.
"Don't leave me, Kiyomi," I rasped into her skin, my voice breaking on a ruined, ragged whisper that stripped away the last shredded remnant of my pride. "Don't you ever leave me."
Kiyomi went still for a fraction of a second, feeling the tremors running through my shoulders, sensing the dark, violent storm raging just beyond our timber door.
Then her arms tightened around my neck, her small hands holding on to me with fierce, unconditional devotion in the quiet dark.
"I'm right here, Mauricio," she breathed into my ear. "I'm not going anywhere."
I held her in the dim light of the living room, clinging to her like a drowning man clinging to the shore, knowing the ice beneath our feet was cracking fast.