The antiseptic sting hung thick in the air, sharp enough to burn the back of my throat. I laid out my supplies with care, cotton swabs in a neat row, gauze stacked, antiseptic sprays lined like soldiers awaiting orders. Every movement was deliberate, a ritual meant to ground me.

It didn’t work.

Three days... That’s all I have been in this city. And within the hree days, I had accepted a contract that sounded like a straightforward sports medicine gig, but felt more like being dropped into enemy territory. And in those three days, I’d heard one name over and over again, whispered like a warning.

Marco Romano.

The door swung open without a knock.

I looked up and stopped breathing.

He filled the doorway, broad shoulders blotting out the light, damp black hair pushed back carelessly, eyes dark and unreadable. The room felt smaller instantly, as if his presence physically pressed against the walls.

Predator. That was my first thought.

I didn’t need an introduction, I knew he was Macro Romano straightaway.

“Dr. Sofia Martins,” I said evenly, refusing to let my voice falter. “I’m guessing you’re Macro Romano.”

His mouth curved—not into a smile, but something colder. “Captain Marco Romano,” he corrected, voice low and smooth, with a faint gravel that hinted at cigarettes or too many nights yelling over roaring crowds. “But most people call me “The Beast” the added.

The name fits though.

Thick muscle filled out the black T-shirt clinging to his frame, the fabric stretching slightly with each breath. His stance was lazy on the surface, but I could feel the restrained energy behind it—like a spring wound tight. A faint scar cut across his left eyebrow, a pale reminder of some fight he’d clearly won.

“I don’t care about your nickname,” I said, returning my focus to the supplies. “I’m here to do my job and that’s it.”

He stepped further inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “Good,” he said in perfect French. “Alors… nous nous comprenons.”

The words slid down my spine like ice water.

He stopped at the table, leaning against it with one hip, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled the fabric of his shirt even tighter over his shoulders. His gaze didn’t drift, it pinned me in place.

“What exactly does your job entail?” he asked.

I kept my hands busy with a roll of gauze…. “administer sports medicine, treating injuries, focus on player recovery and save lives, the usual way.”

“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “the usual isn’t enough.”

I paused. “Meaning?”

“When the games matter most,” his tone sharpened, “we can’t afford to wait weeks for an injury to heal. Recovery has to happen faster.”

The implication hit instantly. I straightened. “You’re asking me to cut corners? Risk a player’s long-term health to keep them in the game?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m asking for results.”

“And if those results cost a career? Or a life?”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between us. Then his voice dropped lower. “Your uncle needs this job. Your clinic needs the money. Everyone wins if my team wins.”

My jaw tightened. He knew exactly where to aim. “I won’t endanger players for your scoreboard.”

He pushed off the table and stepped closer. The scent of clean sweat and faint cologne drifted toward me. “Let me be very clear, Doctor Martinez. This team has its ways. We don’t change them for anyone.”

“Maybe you should.”

That earned me a flicker of amusement, gone as quickly as it came. “First practice is in one hour,” he said, heading for the door. “Try to keep up.”

He stopped with his hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder. “One more thing. Secrets have a way of surfacing here. When they do…” His eyes glinted, a hint of threat beneath the calm. “…people get hurt.”

The door shut behind him, and I realized I was gripping the table so tightly my knuckles were white.

Vincent Romano’s son. The man who could ruin everything all over again. And now I was responsible for keeping him and his team alive.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of physical checks and small talk with the players. Some were polite, others guarded. A few seemed curious about me, but none lingered long enough to be called friendly.

I was taping a forward’s wrist when the first shout split the air.

A second later came the crash of bodies slamming into the boards, followed by the unmistakable sound of a stick snapping. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

Then came the sound I dreaded most, a sickening crack.

I didn’t think, I dropped the roll of tape and bolted, sneakers squealing against the polished floor as I sprinted toward the rink.

By the time I reached the boards, chaos had erupted on the ice.

A player was down, sprawled unnaturally on his side, blood trickling from his nose and pooling beneath his helmet. His chest rose and fell too fast. His gloves twitched weakly against the ice.

I vaulted onto the rink, my knees hitting the cold surface as I skidded to his side. “What happened?”

A teammate shifted uncomfortably. “Jake… he mouthed off to Romano. Didn’t end well.”

I didn’t need to ask for details.

“Stay still, Jake. Look at me,” I instructed, already pulling off my gloves to check his pupils. Uneven dilation. Not good. My fingers skimmed his neck, no major displacement, but swelling was possible.

“Possible concussion,” I called over my shoulder. “We need an ambulance….”

“No.”

The word was sharp enough to freeze me mid-sentence.

I looked up. Marco stood over us, his face unreadable, his presence crushing the air out of the space.

“He needs a hospital,” I said firmly.

“I said no.”

I blinked at him. “This is not negotiable.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “We handle our own injuries here.”

“You’re not handling anything. This isn’t a scraped knee, it’s a possible brain injury!”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “The only thing you need to worry about is keeping your job.”

I held his stare. “I will not risk his life for your pride.”

For a tense, long moment, the world narrowed to the sound of our breathing and the faint groan of the injured player between us.

Then Marco pulled out his phone without looking away from me and dialed.

“Vincent,” he said when the line clicked, his voice smooth but edged. “We’ve got a problem. The new doctor. You’ll have to meet her yourself.”

My stomach clenched so hard I felt dizzy.

Vincent Romano. The man who shattered my life. The man I’av sworn never to see again.

And now, he was coming.