The Captain's Forbidden Skater

Nessa POV

The arena air cut cold and metallic into my lungs. Fifty feet up, behind the VIP glass, my father held a digital stopwatch. He didn't wave or smile; he just watched.

“Higher, Nessa.” Victor's voice rasped through my earbud. “Speed creates height. Height creates perfection.”

I dug my left blade into the ice and pushed harder. Six hours had passed, my legs burned, and my shoulders ached from holding the required position. One clean Quad Lutz could secure my place in the Olympic selection process, while one failed jump could give my father a reason to threaten to drop me from his firm again.

I'd landed three clean triples that morning. The coaches nodded while the junior trainers took notes, but none of it mattered if the quad failed. At breakfast, Dad had said the same thing while cutting his eggs.

“Medals are not built on almost.”

I slammed my toe pick into the ice and launched into the rotation, the lights blurring above me as I counted. One, two, three, four.

I came down, but my right blade caught the ice at the wrong angle. My ankle twisted with a sharp snap that shot up my shin, and I hit the ice hard, my shoulder slamming against the barrier as my injured leg dragged behind me.

I couldn't breathe as cold water soaked through my tights, and I curled around my ankle.

“Get up, Nessa.”

My father's voice came through the earbud, flat and impatient.

“Dad, I can't move my foot.”

“Nothing is broken that cannot be wrapped. Forty-eight days until qualifiers. Stand up.”

I planted my palms on the ice and tried to push myself up, but the moment my right blade touched down, agony ripped through my leg. My knee buckled, and I fell again.

Pain blurred my vision, but my father's expression stayed clear in my mind. He looked more angry than worried.

Two paramedics hurried toward me with a stretcher.

“Send them away,” Victor ordered. “No stretchers. No headlines. You walk to the car on your own, or I cancel every sponsor contract by midnight.”

I looked up at the VIP booth as he turned away, adjusted his tie, and left.

In the private locker room, the steel door slammed shut behind him. He didn't ask how I felt or look at my ankle; instead, he opened his leather bag and took out a prescription bottle and a bottle of water.

“Take two.”

“Dad, no. Dr. Evans said I need an X-ray first.”

“Evans works for the federation. I work for your career.”

He pressed the pills into my palm.

“These will keep the swelling down overnight. Five tomorrow morning, you're back on the ice. You are not losing your spot to a backup.”

“I can't jump on this. You heard the sound.”

He leaned closer.

“You will jump if I tell you to jump. Sponsors care about gold, not your pain. I built this career. Don't ruin it because you lack discipline.”

He closed my fingers around the pills and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Twenty minutes later, the side door opened, and Dr. Evans entered with a tablet in his hand and a grim expression.

“He left?”

I nodded. My foot had swollen beneath the wrap, and the numbness was fading into a deep, throbbing ache.

“Your emergency scan is ready.” He turned the tablet toward me.

A bright red mark showed near the base of my ankle.

“Is it broken?”

“You have severe ligament damage and small fractures around the joint. Putting your full weight on it could make the damage much worse.”

I stared at the scan.

“He wants me back on the ice at five.”

“Not happening. I've sent the findings to the Sports Federation Medical Board. Your injury requires medical leave and supervised rehabilitation.”

My heart began to pound.

“Are they pulling me from the qualifiers?”

“Your eligibility hasn't been cancelled, but you cannot return to the ice until your treating team clears you.”

“Dad will hire lawyers. He'll overturn the decision.”

“He already appealed. The board rejected it. Your rehabilitation will be supervised by a federation-appointed specialist outside his management.”

Evans placed a thin blue folder on the bench, and I opened it to find a photograph of a man with dark, messy hair, a sharp jaw shadowed by stubble, and cold gray eyes.

Brennan Kessler.

My breath caught.

“He's a hockey player. He hates my family.”

“He's the only available specialist approved for this assignment who isn't employed by your father. The federation controls the assignment. Your medical team still controls your clearance.”

Before I could respond, the door banged open, and Victor stood in the doorway with his phone clenched in his hand. His gaze moved from Evans to the folder in my lap.

“This is a joke. I will not let a disgraced street fighter handle my daughter's training.”

“The board's decision stands,” Evans replied. “She needs rehabilitation, not another attempt to train through an injury.”

Victor's jaw tightened as he turned to me.

“You start tomorrow at six. Do not embarrass me. Complete the program and get back on the ice.”

He marched out before I could answer, and Evans watched the door close.

“Brennan Kessler doesn't make excuses,” he said. “But he knows the difference between discipline and an injury that needs treatment.”

I stared at the photograph, knowing I now had to work with a man who had every reason to hate my family.

I closed the folder and pressed it against my chest.

Tomorrow at six, I would arrive at Brennan Kessler's facility on crutches. I would follow the medical restrictions, fight for my recovery, and find a way back to the ice.

Whatever he thought of me, I wasn't giving up my future without a fight.