Chapter 12: Caught In the spotlight

Brielle’s POV.

My hand hovered inches from the black water bottle, my heart slamming violently against my ribcage.

"Step away from the locker," Nate said smoothly, taking two slow, deliberate steps forward. He wore a tailored dark jacket, looking entirely unbothered for a man standing in an empty arena at two in the morning. His cold eyes flicked from me to Chase. "You really shouldn't be here, man, brakes are shot on your career, and you're trespassing."

Chase moved with lethal swiftness, stepping directly between Nate's guards and me. He towered over the room, his jaw set like stone.

"You poisoned me, Nate," Chase said, his voice dropping into a register so dangerously low it made the security guards shift uncomfortably. "My entire life. 

My spot on the ice, you sat in my living room, drank my beer, and put central nervous system suppressants in my daily supplements."

Nate let out a soft, mocking laugh, tossing his keycard onto a wooden bench. "Poisoned? Don't be dramatic, Chase. It’s just a little central nervous system regulator. Just enough to slow your reaction time down by two-tenths of a second. Just enough to make John realize his golden boy is broken and give someone else the captaincy."

"You sold out the entire team for a title?" I demanded, my hands trembling as I subtly slid my thumb around the black water bottle on the shelf, keeping it hidden behind my body.

"I sold out for what I earned!" Nate snapped, his polite veneer finally cracking to reveal the bitter, desperate envy beneath. "I carried this line for three seasons while everyone bowed down to Kensington. John offered me the captain's contract and a three-year extension the second Chase got suspended. All I had to do was make sure Chase failed his league drug panel tonight."

"My father paid you?" Chase asked, a momentary flash of agony crossing his eyes before turning into pure, lethal rage.

"John doesn't care who wears the 'C' as long as the franchise value stays above two billion," Nate sneered. He gestured to the guards. "Take the bottle and the vial. Escort Miss Hopkins off the property and delete her media credentials. Chase, go home and get some sleep, your suspension hearing is in seven hours."

The two guards stepped forward.

"Don't touch her," Chase growled.

Before the first guard could reach me, Chase lunged, slamming his shoulder into the larger officer and driving him back into the row of metal lockers with a deafening crash.

"Brielle, run!" Chase roared.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the black water bottle and the small glass vial off the shelf, shoved them deep into my jacket pocket, and bolted toward the secondary exit leading to the ice rink tunnel.

"Get her!" Nate yelled, his voice echoing frantically down the corridor.

Footsteps thundered behind me as the second guard gave chase. I sprinted through the dark tunnel, my sneakers slipping on the damp concrete, until I burst out into the vast, freezing cavern of the main arena. The empty ice rink stretched out before me, glowing faintly under the emergency exit lights.

I scrambled up the stairs toward the media catwalks, clutching the evidence to my chest. My lungs burned, but the thought of Chase losing everything kept my legs moving.

Heavy boots slammed up the metal stairs behind me. I reached the top platform, looking down at the dark drop below. The exit to the upper concourse was locked with a heavy chain.

I was cornered.

The second guard reached the top landing, breathing heavily, holding out his hand. "Give me the bottle, kid. You're out of your depth."

"She’s not alone," a deep voice rasped from the shadows of the doorway.

The guard turned just in time to catch Chase’s right hook directly across the jaw. The guard stumbled back, hitting the railing before collapsing onto the metal platform, completely out cold.

Chase stood over him, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his knuckles split and bleeding. He looked up at me, his blue eyes burning with an intense, fierce protection.

"You okay?" he asked, rushing over and grabbing my face in his hands.

"I have it," I whispered, holding up the black bottle and the glass vial. "I have the proof."

Chase pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I could feel the violent thud of his heart against my ribs.

"Let's go crush them," Chase murmured against my skin.

We slipped out through the loading bay doors and into the pouring rain, the black water bottle and glass vial secured inside my waterproof camera bag. The city was still asleep, but the clock on the dashboard read 4:30 AM.

We had four hours before the league hearing.

"My private physician has a lab in Midtown," Chase said, turning the SUV onto the highway, his hands gripping the wheel with cold precision. "He owes me a favor. He can run a rapid toxicology panel and centrifuge the liquid before 7:50 AM."

"And the vial?" I asked, pulling the glass container out to inspect it under the dim interior light.

"If that matches the sedatives found in my bloodwork from last night, it’s not just a league violation," Chase’s jaw tightened, his eyes reflecting the passing streetlamps. "It’s criminal assault and corporate conspiracy."

We reached the private medical facility in twenty minutes. Dr. Vance, a quiet man who had treated Chase’s sports injuries for five seasons, met us at the back entrance. Within an hour, the lab centrifuge hummed to a halt.

Dr. Vance walked out with two printouts, his face grave. "It’s a concentrated neuro-inhibitor, Chase. It depresses heart rate and motor control. The compound in this vial is identical to what was found in your blood panel. If you’d taken one more dose before game time on Friday, you could have gone into cardiac arrest on the ice."

The room went deadly silent. Chase didn't flinch, but his eyes turned to pure ice.

"Print three certified copies of the report," Chase said quietly. "We're going to league headquarters."

By 8:45 AM, the glass-and-steel skyscraper of the NHL League Headquarters loomed above us. Rain pelted the sidewalk as Chase and I walked through the double doors, flanked by his chief legal representative.

When we stepped into the 12th-floor executive boardroom, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Sitting at the head of the polished mahogany table was the League Commissioner, flanked by four board members. On the left sat Nate Bryant, looking pristine in a suit, flanked by two corporate lawyers. Next to him was John Kensington, looking imperious and cold.

"You're late, Chase," John said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "Though I suppose you came to sign the voluntary resignation papers before the public scandal ruins the family name completely."

"I'm not signing anything, Father," Chase said, his voice ringing through the room with absolute authority as he pulled out a chair for me before taking his seat.

"Mr. Kensington," the Commissioner interjected sternly. "This hearing is to address the severe violation of league substance policies and the unauthorized media leaks. Your credentials as captain are suspended indefinitely."

"My credentials aren't the ones that should be suspended," Chase replied calmly. He reached into my bag, pulled out the certified toxicology reports, and slid three folders across the table.

Nate’s smirk faltered slightly.

"That is a certified forensic toxicology analysis completed two hours ago," Chase continued, leaning forward, his gaze locked onto Nate. "It details the exact central nervous system suppressant slipped into my daily supplements over the last three weeks. And beside it is the digital audit log of the iPad that uploaded the leaked files to press networks at 2:15 PM yesterday."

The Commissioner opened the folder, his eyes widening as he scanned the official lab seals and device tracking tags. "This IP address..."

"Belongs to Nate Bryant," I spoke up clearly, placing my tablet on the table to display the mirrored MAC address logs. "Syncing from the private arena Wi-Fi while Chase was on the ice."

John Kensington’s head snapped toward Nate. "What is the meaning of this?"

Nate’s face drained of all color. He pushed his chair back, his hands shaking as he looked at the lawyers beside him, who were suddenly staring at him in utter silence.

"He spiked my recovery bottles to induce motor lag," Chase said, his voice cut with razor-sharp authority. "And he did it to take the captaincy. Check his locker, check his personal accounts—or let the police do it when they process the criminal complaint my lawyers filed thirty minutes ago."

The Commissioner stood up, slamming his hand on the table. "Security, hold Mr. Bryant in the side conference room until law enforcement arrives. This hearing is adjourned pending criminal investigation."

Nate was escorted out of the room in silence, his eyes fixed on the floor.

John Kensington sat frozen, realizing the trap he had almost walked into. He looked across the table at Chase, then at me. "Chase... we can handle the media fallout together. The team..."

"The team will be fine without your interference," Chase said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "My contract extension stays. But you and I are done, John."

Without another word, Chase extended his hand to me. I slipped my hand into his, feeling the warmth and strength in his grip, and together we walked out of the boardroom.