Chapter 3

Crossing The Line

Karol Kensingston POV

Heavy footsteps slammed into the turf marking their territory behind us. Ciro's medics finally made it, shoving me by the shoulder.

"Back off, Kensington!" their head physician barked, red-faced and panicked. "Get your hands off our player. We’ve got this."

I tried to pull it back . It was the smart, safe, legal thing to do. But Ciro regained  consciousness and his grip on my wrist tightened until it ached.

"No," Ciro snarled, his voice a ragged growl of absolute authority. He glared up at his own doctor, his chest heaving. "Don't touch me. Her. She does it."

"Ciro, be reasonable, she's with the opposition"

"I said, back the fuck off!" Ciro roared, the effort draining the last bit of color from his face. He looked back at me, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that sucked the air right out of my lungs. "Do it, Karol. Cut it."

My hands were shaking for a second. Then the training took over.

With his doctors watching in stunned, furious silence, I slid the shears under the heavy synthetic strap and sliced it open. The joint was already deformed and swelling fast. I packed it with instant ice and threw a compression bandage on it, working with a speed that left his medics speechless.

Minutes later, the stretcher arrived.

I refused to let go of the board. I marched right alongside them as they wheeled him down into the dark concrete belly of the away-team tunnel, ignoring the death glares from their management. Ciro kept slipping in and out of consciousness, but every time his eyes opened, his fingers blindly searched for the edge of my jacket.

They pushed him into the bright, sterile locker room medical bay. Absolute chaos broke out, coaches shouting on phones, paramedics rushing in with a gurney.

I stepped back against the cold tile wall, trying to catch my breath. My knees were soaked in mud, and my hands were starting to shake now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

I had crossed the line. I was a dead woman walking. Esperanza was going to ruin me.

On a stainless-steel table, one of Ciro’s medics tossed his gear, the heavy cleats, the shin guards, the cut-up strap.

I stared at the strap.

Even from a few feet away, something looked wrong. The edge was the reinforced Kevlar fabric that had torn.

I looked around. Everyone was too busy with Ciro to notice me. I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, snapped them on, and stepped up to the table.

I picked up the severed strap.

The material was heavy, but the center band, the exact spot that had taken the brunt of the tackle, felt brittle. It crumbled slightly between my fingers, leaving a weird, bluish-black smudge on my white glove.

I brought it closer to my face.

A sharp, chemical smell hit the back of my throat like burnt sulfur and acetone. It wasn't sweat. It wasn't deep-heat rub.

It was a synthetic polymer degrader.

My stomach dropped into an icy abyss. I knew that smell. I'd seen the safety data sheets for it locked away in the restricted archives of the Kensington Institute. It was a classified, corrosive solvent engineered in our own private labs to dissolve medical-grade plastics.

You couldn't buy it on the street. You couldn't get it anywhere unless you had a keycard to our labs.

I was certain this time.

Someone in my family hadn't just wanted Ciro off the pitch. They had laced his gear with a corrosive agent so that the second he took a hit, his knee would completely collapse. They had tried to end him for good.

"Hey! Step away from the evidence table!"

I jumped, dropping the strap back onto the metal.

Three men in sharp black suits, flashing official Colombian Football League badges, barged into the room. They carried heavy plastic evidence bags.

"League authority," the lead official barked, shoving past me without looking at my face. He aggressively dumped Ciro’s cleats, shin guards, and the blistered strap into the bag, sealing it shut with a zip lock. "All gear is being confiscated pending a tribunal review."

I stood there, staring at the sealed bag.

They were taking the evidence. They were taking the only proof that my family had orchestrated.

And as the officials marched out with the chemical residue, a terrifying reality locked into place. If the league found that chemical, the Kensington legacy was done for.

But if Ciro discovers what had happened, he would kill us all.