บททั้งหมดของ Beneath the ICE: Falling for the Captain : บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

NOAHThe word blackmail echoed in the high-ceilinged bedroom like a physical strike, turning the warm, lingering haze of the night into a cold, clinical horror that made my throat close up entirely.I stared at the television screen, watching the scrolling red ticker rewrite my entire existence into the narrative of a calculated, scheming opportunist who used locker-room secrets as currency to climb the corporate ladder of the league. My years of studying, the late-night shifts at the clinic, the grueling hours spent fixing torn ligaments and bruised shoulders—all of it was being dissolved in real-time by a corporate PR machine designed to protect the franchise’s bottom line at all costs."I didn't do it," I whispered, the words sounding incredibly thin, almost pathetic, as I looked down at my hands, which were shaking so hard the platinum band on my finger was nothing but a silver blur. "Stefan, I swear to you, I didn't even know about the line-fixing investigation until you said it

NOAHThe heavy oak doors of the legacy conference room didn't just swing open; they felt like the gates to an ancient arena, the sudden blast of chilled, conditioned air hitting my face as Stefan and I stepped over the threshold into a room that contained eighty percent of the franchise's historical wealth.The atmosphere was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, fine leather, and a sharp, corporate hostility that made my suit jacket feel like a straitjacket, every single eye at the massive horseshoe-shaped table instantly locking onto us with a calculated, freezing intensity."You’re late, Kovacs," Arthur Ward barked from the head of the table, his tie slightly askew and his face a dangerously bright shade of crimson that confirmed exactly what Adrian had said—the GM was sweating through his tailoring. “This meeting is highly irregular, the board has already released its official statement regarding the compliance suspension, and we do not appreciate being summoned by a retired

NOAHThe press room, the legacy owners, the corporate paperwork—it all dissolved into the freezing, empty darkness of the corridor the moment my mouth met his.. My hands had completely abandoned their usual clinical restraint, my fingers clawing into the thick, dense muscle of his shoulders, dragging him down into a kiss that tasted sharply of salt and a fierce, unresolved hunger that had been building since the first night we lied to the world.Stefan let out a low, desperate sound—a growl that vibrated directly from his chest into my throat—as his hands tore themselves out of his pockets.He didn't grab me gently. One massive, calloused palm slammed against the concrete right beside my ear, the impact echoing down the dark hallway like a distant slap on the ice, while his other hand gripped the back of my thigh, lifting my leg effortlessly until my knee hooked over his hip. The sudden change in leverage tilted my hips directly into his, the hard, unyielding line of his frame press

The air in the private training room always felt different after nine o’clock at night. The harsh fluorescent panels overhead were switched off, leaving only the low, amber glow of the security lights bouncing off the spotless rubber floors and the rows of stainless-steel equipment.It was quiet. the kind of silence that made every small sound—the drip of a sink faucet, the hum of the ice rink refrigeration units vibrating through the concrete, or the heavy thud of a hockey stick against a wall upstairs—sound ten times louder than it actually was.I sat on the edge of the high treatment table, my legs dangling slightly off the edge, staring down at an open clipboard filled with recovery tracking charts. My fingers were wrapped around a cold can of sparkling water, but I hadn’t taken a sip in ten minutes.My mind was a mess.Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel the phantom heat of Stefan’s hands against my waist, the rough friction of his stubble, and the way the world had

The locker room was entirely empty by the time the heavy security doors hissed shut, sealing us off from the rest of the arena.The digital clock on the wall glowed a sharp, neon 11:45 PM. Upstairs, the stadium was a cavernous, dark shell of concrete and ice, but down here in the private suite, the air was thick, warm, and charged with an energy that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the way Stefan was looking at me.I stood with my back pressed against the cold metal of the supply lockers, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My white lab coat was discarded somewhere on the bench behind us, and my button-down shirt felt entirely too tight, every button straining against the frantic, irregular thud of my heart.Stefan stood right in front of me, his tall, heavily muscled frame completely blocking out the rest of the room. The dark blue team jersey he’d worn to practice earlier was gone, replaced by a simple black t-shirt that stretched tightly across