All Chapters of The Hockey Captain’s Curvy Obsession: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The morning sun that bled through the arched windows of the Seattle federal building was cold, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished marble floors. There was no warmth in this place, only the quiet, intimidating hum of institutional power. I stood in the corridor, clutching my leather briefcase to my chest like a shield, listening to the echoing clicks of expensive leather shoes on stone. The division lawyers had arrived. They looked like a flock of well-tailored crows, whispering in tight circles, their eyes darting toward where Rhys stood at the end of the hall.He looked massive against the classical architecture of the building, a towering figure of quiet defiance in his tailored navy suit. His shoulders were set, his jaw locked in a rigid line that told me he hadn’t slept any more than I had. He had spent the last twelve hours helping Lars organize the legal packets, but his focus hadn't been on the money or the franchise stocks. Every time I looked up from my desk las

The private training facility inside our Seattle residence was configured to four hundred square feet of horizontal floor space. The atmospheric temperature was set to precisely sixty-six degrees, and the illumination index was calibrated to fifty lux, casting uniform grey shadows across the mechanical training equipment.​I sat on a low, non-textured bench, holding my offline diagnostic tablet. Without access to the league's central cloud network, I had spent the previous four hours coding a localized, closed-loop processing program. This program did not require an external server connection to calculate muscle activation; it operated entirely on localized Bluetooth transfers from the manual electrode patches I had placed on Rhys’s legs.​Rhys stood in the center of the rubberized floor, his physical coordinates aligned with the vertical axis of the squat rack. He was stripped of his training shirt, his broad torso positioned at a ninety-degree angle to the wall mirrors. The physical

The Rogers Arena in Vancouver was maintained at an air temperature of exactly sixty-two degrees, which was apparently the standard municipal setting for hosting highly overpaid athletes on a frozen sheet of thirty-two-degree water.​The acoustic pressure inside the geometric dome had reached ninety-eight decibels. It was a level of auditory pollution that was currently vibrating my cerebral cortex and making me seriously question the developmental choices that had led me to a career in professional sports.​I stood behind the transparent protective barrier of the Seattle player bench, my mechanical stopwatch held in my right hand, my left hand resting flat on the cold alloy rail. My fingers applied a downward force of exactly ten Newtons, which was currently the only physical action keeping my posture from degrading into a visible display of defensive irritation.​Without my secure server access or my real-time telemetry screens, my mind was forced to operate like a heavily overclocke

The third period of the showcase game in Vancouver commenced with exactly twenty minutes on the main countdown clock.​I stood in my designated spot behind the Seattle player bench, my fingers curled over the edge of the wood. The cold air of the arena was sixty-two degrees, a temperature that did not match the rapid rise of my own pulse. My stopwatch was ready in my hand, but my eyes did not need a mechanical aid to see what was happening on the ice.​The scoreboard on the far wall displayed the reality of our situation.​Seattle: 1Vancouver: 0Period: 3Time Remaining: 15:40​We had a single-goal lead, and we were playing in the home arena of the man who had spent the last three months trying to dismantle my career and Rhys’s knee.​Thomas Miller remained in his central luxury box, his posture as stiff as a steel beam. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the team coaches. His focus was entirely on Rhys’s movements, his mind likely calculating how many dollars of his in

The door to the private family lounge inside the Vancouver arena closed with a sharp mechanical click. The heavy oak panel instantly blocked out the movement and voices of the stadium hallways, leaving us in a quiet, isolated space.​I stood by the central table, my fingers resting on the metal handle of my briefcase. The physical exhaustion of the last seventy-two hours was a heavy weight in my chest, but my mind was completely clear.​We had won the game. We had proven Rhys's physical recovery on national television. But as I looked at the dark windows of the empty luxury box across the ice, I knew the corporate battle was not over. My father was not the kind of businessman who accepted a physical defeat on the ice without launching a secondary administrative counter-attack.​The door opened again, and Rhys walked into the room.​He had removed his team jersey and his protective pads, leaving him in his dark travel trousers and a simple black shirt. Without the extra bulk of his hoc