Chapter 21: Unseen Witness

Gianna’s POV

The apartment felt too big and too quiet after Ryker left. I tried to study, but the words on my textbook pages didn't seem to make sense. My mind kept drifting back to the way his eyes looked in the dark car. I needed to get out of the penthouse.

Around noon, I noticed Ryker’s black knee brace sitting on the small table by the front door. He had forgotten it. I knew from his injury file that his right knee suffered from chronic swelling after long practices. If he skated all day without it, especially with his shoulder already bruised, he would be in no shape to play against Jaxson Reed on Friday.

I grabbed the brace, threw on a big black jacket, and pulled a baseball cap low over my eyes.

******

The campus ice rink was on the south side of the university. The building was a massive concrete structure that smelled like old ice, damp gear, and hot chocolate. I walked through the side doors, avoiding the main lobby where students usually hung out. The hallway leading to the stands was cold, and my breath turned into small white clouds in the air.

I didn't go down to the locker rooms. Instead, I walked up the concrete steps to the top row of the empty bleachers, staying hidden in the shadows of the high rafters.

Down below, the hockey team was in the middle of a brutal scrimmage. The sound of metal skates cutting into hard ice echoed loudly through the empty building. Sticks slammed against the boards like gunshots.

Ryker was easy to spot. Even without his name on his practice jersey, his size and speed set him apart. He moved across the ice like a freight train, his eyes locked on the puck. He didn't play like it was just a practice, he played like his life depended on every single second.

"Move it, Barrett!" Coach Vance yelled from the bench, his voice booming across the rink. "Reed’s line runs faster than that! Hit the blue line!"

Ryker didn't answer. He just dug his skates deeper into the ice and took off. Another player tried to block him, but Ryker slammed his body weight into the guy, sending him flying against the plexiglass with a loud crash.

I watched him closely. Every time he shot the puck, his right shoulder twitched slightly. He was still hurting from Monday night, but he wasn't letting anyone see it. He was pushing his body to the absolute limit.

After another twenty minutes of hard drills, Coach Vance blew his whistle twice. "That's it for today! Hit the showers. Barrett, stay out there and work on your slapshot targets."

The rest of the team groaned, skating off the ice and heading down the tunnel toward the locker rooms. Ryker stayed at the center line. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling fast under his heavy black pads. Sweat was dripping down his neck.

He skated over to a bucket of pucks, dumped them onto the ice, and began taking shots at the empty net. One after another, the pucks flew into the top corners of the goal with deadly accuracy.

I stood up from my seat, intending to walk down the stairs and leave the brace with the equipment manager. But before I could take a step, the heavy metal door near the ice rink opened.

A tall man in a dark trench coat walked out onto the player's bench. He had a clipboard in his hand and a small silver pin on his lapel. The pin had the logo of a major NHL team.

An NHL scout.

Ryker stopped skating, but he didn't look surprised to see the man. He skated over to the bench, resting his gloved hands on top of the wooden boards.

"You're moving fast, Barrett," the scout said. "But the front office saw the footage from the gala. They don't like the drama with Reed. And they definitely don't like the rumors about your shoulder."

Ryker wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. "My shoulder is fine. And Reed is just talking. It won't affect my game on Friday."

"It better not," the scout replied coldly, tapping his clipboard against the rail. "We are looking for a franchise player, not a liability. If you lose your temper or your captaincy, our pick goes to someone else. Your fake girlfriend might look good for the local papers, but the NHL cares about wins, not romance. Don't let her distract you."

Ryker’s back went completely rigid. I held my breath, waiting to see if he would snap or argue.

"She isn't a distraction," Ryker said, his voice dropping into a low, hard tone that echoed clearly. "She's none of your business. Just watch the game on Friday."

The scout stared at him for a long moment, then gave a single nod and walked back into the tunnel.

Up in the shadows, my heart sank. Hearing the scout call me a "fake girlfriend" and a "liability" made the truth hit home—I was a danger to his dream. If anyone found out who I really was, Ryker’s career wouldn't just be damaged—it would be completely ruined.

I slowly stepped back into the darkness of the top row, the black knee brace heavy in my hands. I couldn't let him see me here. I needed to leave before he looked up.