Chapter 31: The Red Alert

The taste of Jaxson Cole was still on my lips,

The sound didn’t come from the heavy timber doors or the wind howling against the triple-paned glass facing the Tatra slopes. It came from my tablet, resting face-down on the leather ottoman beside the hearth. A sharp, continuous ping the high-priority frequency reserved exclusively for the Vance Sports Legacy board.

I pulled back, my breath hitching in my throat. Jaxson’s hands were still resting on my waist, his thumbs pressing firmly through the soft cotton of my sweater. For three seconds, his steel-blue eyes held mine, dark with a heavy, unfiltered hunger that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with the way my fingers had just been tangled in his blonde hair.

"Don't," he muttered, his voice a low, and vibrated against my collarbone. "Let it ring, Sienna."

"It’s the executive line," I whispered, though my voice sounded paper-thin. My skin felt flushed, every nerve ending firing from the sudden warmth of his body pressed against mine. "They only trigger that override if..."

The tablet Pinged again, louder, followed by a red pulsing glow that cast long, ominous shadows across the floorboards.

Jaxson let out a harsh exhale, his jaw tightening as the soft focus in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the guarded, lethal edge of a man who had spent his entire adult life being hunted by cameras and boardrooms. He didn't move away, but the shift was immediate. The romantic haze evaporated into thin, freezing air.

I turned and picked up the device. The screen was flooded with dark red banners: EMERGENCY PRESS CONFERENCE — LIVE FROM KRAKÓW EAGLES HEADQUARTERS.

"Put it on the wall screen," Jaxson said, his tone dropping an octave.

I tapped the sync icon, sending the feed to the heavy display mounted above the stone fireplace. The screen flickered, blacking out the soft amber light of the hearth, and suddenly we were staring at the polished mahogany podium of the Vance Press Room in Kraków.

My breath caught in my throat.

Standing behind the bank of microphones was Bronisław Vance. My uncle looked pristine. Beside him stood two senior directors from the league's central board, their faces carved out of stone.

"Look at him," Jaxson murmured, his voice dropping into a deadly calm. He stepped up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, but his gaze was locked on the screen like a predator tracking movement in the brush. "He’s smiling, Sienna. The bastard already knows he’s won."

"Quiet," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Just listen."

Bronisław adjusted the microphone, resting his hands flat on the podium. He took a long, deliberate breath, leaning forward with an expression of profound, practiced grief that made my stomach turn into a tight knot.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, members of the league, and fans across the nation," Bronisław began, his rich baritone echoing through the speakers with absolute, unshakeable authority. "Thank you for gathering on such short notice. It is with a heavy heart, and a profound sense of responsibility to the integrity of professional athletics, that I stand before you today."

I felt Jaxson’s fingers brush my wrist, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. I didn't pull away. I couldn't.

"Over the past seventy-two hours," Bronisław continued, his eyes locking directly into the camera lens, "the senior medical board of Vance Sports Legacy has conducted an exhaustive, multi-layered review of the preliminary diagnostic scans and structural evaluations regarding Mr. Jaxson Cole’s knee injury."

"He hasn't seen those scans," I said, the words slipping out of me in a frantic breath. "I haven't uploaded the real-time cellular imaging to the central server yet. I kept them local. He doesn't have the files!"

"He doesn't need the files, Sienna," Jaxson said coldly, not taking his eyes off the screen. "He’s writing the script."

"It is our absolute priority to protect our athletes," my uncle’s voice filled the room, smooth as glass, carrying a terrifying weight of fake sincerity. "However, as the leading medical authority in this league, we cannot allow false hope to cloud medical reality. Based on the catastrophic structural degradation observed in Mr. Cole’s joint degradation that far exceeds initial field estimates is the unanimous conclusion of our board that Jaxson Cole has suffered irreparable, permanent tissue and nerve damage."

A wave of loud, chaotic murmuring erupted from the press pool on the screen. Camera flashes began going off in rapid, blinding bursts.

"Therefore," Bronisław pressed on, overriding the noise with practiced ease, "Vance Sports Legacy must officially advise the league commission that Mr. Cole is no longer fit to participate in professional football. His career on the field has effectively come to an end."

"You son of a bitch," Jaxson growled. It wasn't a shout. It was a dark, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His right hand clenched into a fist so hard I could hear the faint crackle of his knuckles.

I looked up at him. The man who, less than ten minutes ago, had held me in the dark and kissed me until I forgot my own name, was completely gone. In his place stood the ruthless billionaire general of the pitch, his steel-blue eyes blazing with a dangerous, calculating fury. But underneath the anger, I saw it a flicker of pure, unadulterated devastation. They were taking his life’s work away with a single sentence, executed by a man in a polished suit who had never taken a hit in his life.

"He's lying," I said, turning back to the screen, my hands shaking so violently I had to grip the edge of the leather sofa. "It's medical perjury. Complete, absolute perjury! I can prove the tissue is regenerating! I can prove his joint is stable!"

"I know this news comes as a devastating blow to the franchise and the millions of fans who have watched Jaxson Cole dominate this sport," Bronisław said, bowing his head slightly in a masterclass of theatrical solemnity. "And because we believe in complete, uncompromising transparency, we will not ask you to take merely my word for it."

My uncle lifted his head, a faint, almost curve touching the edge of his thin lips.

"Our primary sports therapist, currently supervising Mr. Cole at his private retreat in Zakopane, has been conducting round-the-clock physical evaluations," Bronisław stated clearly. "By the end of this week, once the final clinical metrics are compiled, the official medical document confirming his permanent disability and formal retirement will be signed, verified, and released directly to the public by our very own lead specialist..."

Bronisław paused, letting the silence hang over the auditorium for three seconds before delivering the final blow.

"...my brilliant niece, Sienna Vance."

The screen blurred before my eyes.

The air left my lungs all at once, as if someone had slammed a heavy fist straight into my sternum. The library seemed to tilt, the high oak shelves warping around me.

He framed me.

My uncle hadn't just isolated me in the mountains to keep me away from the Kraków office. He hadn't just used the Cole family buyout to get me out of the way. He had set up a execution block, and he had placed my name on the ax.

If I signed that document, I would destroy the man I was falling for, confirming a lie that would end his career forever. If I refused to sign it, Bronisław would leak the forged diagnostic files under my cloned digital signature anyway, painting me as an incompetent, backstabbing therapist who destroyed the league's top star out of negligence effectively revoking my medical license and burying me in federal lawsuits for the rest of my life.

I was the scapegoat. The sacrifice to protect the Vance empire.

"Sienna," Jaxson’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears.

I couldn't look at him. I couldn't bear to see the suspicion or the betrayal that might be gathering in his eyes. "Jaxson, I didn't know... I swear to God, I didn't know he was going to say my name"

"Sienna, look at me."

His large hands came up, framing my face, his thumbs pressing gently against my cheekbones, forcing me to look straight into his storm-filled eyes. There was no doubt in them. No suspicion. Only a dark, terrifying clarity.

"I know," he said softly, his voice a steady anchor in the middle of my world collapsing. "I know it's a trap."

Before I could speak, a harsh, metallic sound echoed from the heavy mahogany doors at the end of the library.

Bohun stepped into the room. His face was entirely devoid of color, his hand resting heavy on the holster at his hip. He didn't look at the television screen. He looked directly at Jaxson.

"Boss," Bohun said, his voice clipped and tight. "We have a massive problem."

Jaxson didn't drop his hands from my face. "What is it, Bohun?"

"The perimeter sensors just picked up three unmarked black vans coming up the private mountain pass," Bohun said, his eyes flicking briefly to me with grim pity. "They aren't media, boss. They're carrying Vance corporate security tactical units. And they just cut the main power lines at the lower gate."

As if on cue, every light in the library plunged into pitch darkness, leaving only the blood-red emergency strobe flashing silently in the corner.