MY RUTHLESS HOCKEY MAFIA

Two years… no, three years gone in a heartbeat.

That’s all it took, one single and ugly moment to watch the man I thought I would marry turn into someone I hate with passion.

I still remember standing there in the doorway like my feet had grown roots. My brain was screaming at me to move, to shout, to do something, but my body… nothing. Just frozen. And the smell of that stale mix of perfume and sweat — made my stomach twist.

Marcus… my Marcus… was tangled up with my best friend on the very couch where we’d once cuddled and watched late-night movies.

My heart didn’t just break. It shattered, sharp and dangerous, like a wine glass dropped on cement. Pieces of me scattered everywhere.

“Babe, wait, it’s not what it looks like,” Marcus stammered, scrambling to pull his shirt back on, as if fabric could cover up what I had already seen.

I let out a bitter, sharp and loud laughter before I could even stop it, a sound I didn’t even recognize as mine. “Not what it looks like? Do you want me to draw you a diagram, Marcus? Maybe that would make it clearer.”

I flinched. My best friend, or the woman who used to be my best friend couldn’t even look at me. Her cheeks were flushed, hair a mess, hands clutching the blanket like it could hide her shame. She didn’t say a word. Coward.

I didn’t throw anything. I didn’t scream or cry. I didn’t give either of them the satisfaction of a scene. I just turned and walked out.

The harmattan air outside slapped my face the second I stepped into the street. The wind was dry, sharp, carrying the faint scent of dust. But no amount of cold could numb the ache in my chest.

Three years…. Three whole years of shared memories…. birthdays, late night gist, lazy Sunday mornings, whispered promises in the dark…. all poisoned in a single moment.

By the time I got back to my apartment, my phone was buzzing like it was possessed. Marcus’s name flashing over and over. I let it ring until the sound became part of the background noise in my head.

I cried that night. Not the pretty, soft kind of crying you see in movies — no. This was the ugly, snot-on-my-sleeve, gasping-for-air kind of crying.

By morning, my eyes were swollen and my head felt heavy. I couldn’t stay here. The walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in on me. So I packed a small bag, grabbed only the essentials, and called a taxi. My destination? Uncle Roberto’s house in the quiet town where he’d lived for years.

Roberto was… well, he was Roberto Martins, a big personality, bigger heart, and the kind of man who believed problems should be tackled head-on. The moment he opened the door, his arms wrapped around me, and for the first time in hours, I let myself breathe.

“You look tired,” he said, studying me like a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“I am tired,” I replied. It was the simplest truth I could give.

He didn’t push for details. Not right away. Instead, he made me tea, sat with me while I sipped it, and talked about random things, the neighbor’s noisy dog, the tomatoes in his garden until my shoulders loosened.

That evening, after dinner, he finally leaned back in his chair and gave me that look. The one that says, Now let talk.

“Sofia,” his deep voice rumbled, “I heard what happened.”

I almost laughed. Of course he had. News like that travels fast, especially when betrayal is juicy enough for the whole town to chew on.

“You need to get that out of your head,” he continued, tapping his fingers on the table. “I’ve got an opening for a team doctor on the Romano Hawks. You start Monday.”

I blinked. “Hockey? Seriously? Uncle Roberto, I don’t even—”

“It’s not a request, Sofia. It’s a chance to stay busy. And they need someone with your skills.”

I froze. The Romano Hawks. The same hockey team owned by Vincent Romano, the man responsible for my father’s death. And the golden star, Marco Romano, known to his fans as “The Beast”… was his son.

My stomach twisted hard enough to hurt.

I should have said no. Every part of me screamed that I should. I should have stayed in bed, wrapped myself in blankets, and let the world pass me by for a while. But then… something dark and cold inside me spoke up.

Maybe this isn’t punishment. Maybe it’s an opportunity.

An opportunity to get close, to watch and find cracks in their world. To remind them, especially Vincent Romano that the past isn’t buried.

I sat back in my chair, fingers tracing the rim of my mug, and forced my voice to stay calm. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

But deep down, I wasn’t saying yes to the job.

I was saying yes to revenge.