บททั้งหมดของ The Hockey Captain’s Curvy Obsession: บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The bedroom of our new Seattle house was quiet. The ceiling was high, and the large glass window showed only the gray, overcast sky of the morning. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my legs crossed and my hands resting flat against my knees.​The physical reality of what we had done hours earlier settled into my chest. It was a heavy, complicated weight. I looked down at my left hand. A simple platinum band sat on my ring finger. It was not a prop selected by a Chicago public relations team. It was a legal, binding document in the form of metal.​Beside me, the mattress shifted.​Rhys sat up slowly. He did not wear his training gear or his suit. He wore only a pair of dark athletic pants. His massive frame seemed to occupy the entire space of the bed. He did not immediately speak or move to stand. He sat perfectly still, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he looked at the floor.​The silence between us was not professional anymore. The clinical wall that I had maintained for ten

At two o'clock that afternoon, the quiet of my private medical office was broken by the sharp, electronic chime of the desk terminal.​An administrative alert from the league compliance portal flashed on the screen, displaying a red warning symbol next to my firm's corporate registration file.​Registration Status: Under Review. Reason: Liability Insurance Challenge.​I stood up immediately, my spine rigid. I walked to the glass door that connected my office to the main training wing, locking the electronic latch. This was my father's second move. He had realized that he could not touch our marriage certificate, so he was targeting the professional insurance policy that allowed my firm to operate inside the Seattle facility.​"Sasha," Rhys said, walking into the room from the private shower wing. He had changed into a clean gray shirt and athletic pants, his dark hair still damp. He stopped when he saw the red alert on my terminal. "What did he file?"​"My father's legal division file

The media briefing room of the Seattle Kraken facility was packed with over fifty sports journalists, their cameras and recorders aligned toward the central podium. The air inside the room was warm and smelled of electrical equipment and plastic seating.​I stood in the shadow of the back wall near the technical console, my tablet active.​Lars Vance stood at the podium first, his face a mask of professional confidence. "The Seattle franchise is pleased to confirm that Rhys Keller’s league registration is fully active. He will lead the team as captain during Saturday's season opener against the Chicago Iron."​A reporter from the Chicago Tribune stood up immediately. "Mr. Vance, how do you respond to allegations that Rhys’s hasty maritime marriage to his private nutritionist was a calculated legal maneuver to bypass the league’s medical compliance audit?"​The question was a direct assault.​"Our marriage is a matter of private, legal record," Rhys’s voice boomed through the speakers

The roar of eighteen thousand fans inside the Climate Pledge Arena in Seattle was a continuous, vibrating pressure that shook the glass panels of the bench. The air inside the stadium was cold and carried the clean scent of frozen water and synthetic wax.​I stood at the player bench, my telemetry console active on the metal rail.​The score was tied at two in the third period of Rhys's debut against his old team, the Chicago Iron. The game had been brutal, the Chicago defensemen targeting Rhys’s right knee with a systematic physical pressure that had tested our compression wrap to the absolute limit.​Rhys stood near the center line, waiting for the face-off. He wore his green Seattle jersey and his dark helmet, his massive frame low, his hockey stick resting against the ice. He did not show any physical weakness. He had already logged two assists in the second period, his transition speed matching his pre-injury baseline.​The Chicago center, Miller, stepped into the circle, his fac

The kitchen of our Seattle house was silent at midnight.​The gray clouds outside the window had turned black, the steady rain of the evening hitting the glass in a soft, rhythmic pattern.​Rhys lay on the long leather sofa in the living room, his right leg elevated and enclosed in the dark nylon sleeve of the pneumatic compression machine. The hum of the pump was the only sound in the house, a low, mechanical rhythm that kept the quiet from becoming heavy.​I walked into the room, holding a glass of our specialized anti-inflammatory protein isolate.​I sat on the edge of the sofa near his hip. Rhys looked up from his tablet, his face pale but calm under the soft yellow light of the floor lamp.​"Drink this, Rhys," I said, handing him the glass. "It will accelerate the lymphatic clearing while the pneumatic pump is active."​Rhys took the glass, his large fingers brushing against mine. He drank the fluid quickly, then set the empty glass on the side table.​"The Vancouver lawyers are