All Chapters of CROWN OF ICE: My Rival Captain Forgot Our Bond(MM ROMANCE): Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Adrian POVCamera shutters clicked like rapid gunfire across the press room.I sat glued to my chair, my left hand still clamped onto Noah’s thigh beneath the black tablecloth. The tabloid reporter's question hung in the air, echoing off the concrete walls.Why was the captain of the Chicago Wolves hiding in his worst rival's hospital room?I looked at Noah. His jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin white line. His hand pressed down on top of mine under the table, his fingers digging into my knuckles. He didn't answer. He couldn't.Beside the stage, three Titans security guards moved in, grabbing the reporter by his elbows and dragging him backward through the center aisle."This press conference is over," a PR handler shouted into a microphone, shutting off the podium feed.Noise erupted across the room. Journalists stood up on chairs, waving voice recorders, shouting questions over one another.Noah pulled his hand away from mine under the table. He stood up without looking at m

Noah POVThe sharp hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead in the narrow tunnel leading to the ice.Outside, the muffled roar of fifteen thousand fans echoed through the concrete walls, setting a nervous vibration under my boots. I stood beside the equipment stack, my breath short and shallow. The metal clasp of my black leather scent collar felt tight against my throat, digging hard into my pulse point.My heart hammered against my ribs.The suspension notice from the commissioner’s security guards was still shoved in my jacket pocket back in the locker room. Between the league threatening my career and Adrian cornering me in the wet-room twenty minutes ago, my nervous system was firing on all cylinders.A sharp, electric heat flared under my collar.I reached up, pressing my thumb against the black synthetic strap. The battery indicator light blinked twice, turning from solid green to a flashing red error code. A low, continuous hiss issued from the lining as the micro-filter faile

Jax Miller POVThe glass wall of the upper press corridor vibrated with the muffled roar of fifteen thousand fans down in the arena bowl.I stood in the shadow of the steel support beam, my dark eyes fixed on the far end of the hallway. Dr. Ethan Mercer stood near the VIP elevator doors, his white lab coat open over his tailored suit. He had a thin, encrypted satellite phone pressed tight against his ear, his fingers pacing an erratic circle on the polished concrete floor."The dosage was administered," Mercer said into his receiver, his voice barely carrying over the drone of the stadium sound system. "If the memory retrieval triggers again during the second period, increase the sedative drip at the bench."Ten feet behind Mercer, ducked behind a tall electrical junction box, sat Leo Vance.The Chicago vice-captain was on his knees, his black Wolves track jacket drawn tight over his broad shoulders. He held a sleek digital recorder in his right hand, extending the microphone past the

Adrian POV The heavy glass doors of the Manhattan General emergency wing hissed open, letting in a blast of rain and sharp, freezing wind.I burst into the lobby, my boots skidding against the slick linoleum floor. Rain dripped from the hem of my heavy winter jacket, splashing onto the polished tile. My chest heaved in short, jagged drags, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped beast.Ten minutes ago, I received an emergency alert on my cell phone from the local precinct.A dark SUV with blacked-out plates had jumped the curb right outside the player exit, hitting my Vice-Captain, Jax Miller, at full speed before speeding into the night. It wasn't an accident. It was a targeted, deliberate hit-and-run on the Titans' defensive anchor.The hospital lobby smelled of harsh bleach, rubbing alcohol, and cold medical plastic. High overhead, fluorescent light tubes buzzed with a dull, sickening frequency.I ran past the security desk, ignoring the guard who stood up to demand my

Noah POVTwo weeks after Jax Miller’s accident, the league issued a forced housing directive.Both the Chicago Wolves and the New York Titans were booked into the high-rise floor of the Boston Grand Hotel. One hallway. Facing doors. Adjacent executive suites.I stood in the center of Suite 1402, staring at the double-pane glass balcony door. The room smelled of polished mahogany, fresh linen, and old carpet. Down below, city traffic crawled through the cold Boston rain, headlights cutting long yellow lines across the wet asphalt.On the nightstand, my cell phone buzzed against the marble top.I ignored it, unzipping my duffel bag and throwing my workout clothes onto the leather armchair.Through the thin drywall to my right, a heavy metallic thud echoed. A drawer opened and closed. Heavy boots hit the hardwood floor.Adrian was right next door.My chest tightened, my hand freezing over my gear bag. Two weeks had passed since we stood hand-in-hand outside Jax’s operating room. Two week