His Father Bought Me

Roman’s steps felt heavier with each stride as he made his way back to his room, the tension in his body settling deep into his bones. By the time he pushed the door open, his shoulders had already begun to sag.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the silence in. He moved toward the closet on instinct, reaching for his gear without thinking, but then he stopped.

There, sitting on the floor, was her hospital dress. The sight of it hit harder than he expected, like something sharp driving straight through his chest.

Roman’s chest hammered painfully as his fingers tightened around the fabric before he picked it up.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it. Then, slowly, he sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Time was slipping, and he knew it, but in that moment, it felt distant, irrelevant.

He lifted the dress, pressing it lightly to his face. Her scent was still there, faint, but unmistakable. His eyes closed, his breath unsteady as he let it ground him, even if only for a second.

"Where are you, Estelle?" he murmured, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. "Where did he take you?" The question hung unanswered.

Suddenly, a sharp buzz broke through the silence, and Roman’s eyes snapped open. The vibration came again from his phone in his pocket, dragging him back to reality. He pulled it out, his gaze flicking to the screen. It was a message notification. Coach.

He opened the message. The game is starting soon. Where the hell are you?

Roman stared at the words for a second, his jaw tightening. Then his gaze drifted back to the dress in his hands. Carefully, almost reluctantly, he placed it on the bed, smoothing it out like it mattered, like she might come back to it.

Like she might come back to him.

He exhaled slowly, the breath heavy, before pushing himself to his feet. Grabbing his gear bag and stick, he turned and headed for the door.

—

Minutes later, his car tore into the arena parking lot, the tires screeching as if the noise could drown out the thoughts clawing at his head.

The engine hadn’t fully settled before he turned to the side, yanking his gear from the passenger seat with more force than necessary. The cool air hit his face as he stepped out of the car, but it did nothing to steady him.

He slammed the door shut, locked it, and strode toward the entrance without looking back. He didn’t even notice the eyes tracking him. Or maybe he didn’t care.

"Speak of violence in human form."

"I wonder why he nearly killed him. Whatever happened to sportsmanship?"

The murmurs followed him, low but cutting.

Roman heard every word, he just didn’t react, didn’t slow down, didn’t turn. There was only one thing in his mind now, a single, relentless thought pressing forward with every step. Find Estelle. Just finish the game. Then find her.

The arena doors loomed ahead. They swung open before he could reach for them. As he took the step between the opened sliding doors, Roman stopped short, his breath catching in his chest.

Reporters. A wall of them. Microphones thrust forward. Recorders raised. Cameras flashing in sharp, blinding bursts.

For a split second, he stepped back, his pulse spiking. Then the questions hit. Fast, loud, and unrelenting.

"Were you trying to kill him?"

"There’s an ongoing poll calling for your ban, what do you have to say about the level of violence you showed?"

The words came at him all at once, crashing over him like a wave, leaving no space to think, no space to breathe.

Roman let his gaze sweep over the crowd of reporters, their faces blurring together under the harsh glare of flashing cameras. And then, for a split second, a small gasp escaped his lips.

He could have sworn he saw her. Estelle, right there, between two microphones, her eyes fixed on him. He craned his neck instinctively, searching, his heart lurching, but the space was already filled with strangers again.

No. He exhaled slowly. You’re imagining things.

Without a word, he moved forward, slipping past them, shoulders brushing against outstretched arms and equipment as he pushed through the crowd and turned toward the locker room.

Then—

"Where is your wife?" The question cut through the noise, and this time, it hit, freezing Roman in his tracks.

A female reporter stepped forward slightly, her voice sharper now, pressing. "Shouldn’t she be here to support you? Especially for your first game as a married man?"

The words settled more heavily than they should have.

Roman drew in a slow breath, the air feeling tight in his lungs. He turned his head just enough to glance at her, just enough to acknowledge the question, then faced forward again and kept walking.

"Roman! Answer the question!" Voices rose behind him, louder now, more insistent.

But he didn’t look back, didn’t slow down. He didn’t have time for this. Only two things mattered: win the game and find Estelle.

The thought had barely settled when a figure stepped into his path. His coach.

"You’re late," Jim said, arms crossed, his tone clipped. "Are you sure you’re ready for this game?"

Roman didn’t stop moving until he was right in front of him. "When have I not been ready?" he replied, his voice steady, almost detached.

Jim’s expression hardened. "When have you ever had the entire world calling for your ban?"

Roman met his gaze, then let out a quiet breath, running a hand through his hair. "I’m ready, Jim," he said, calmer now. "That’s all you need to worry about."

He moved to step past him, but Jim’s hand shot out, gripping his arm. Roman stopped, and slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet his coach’s. He didn’t speak, but something in his gaze made the air between them stop.

"One mistake," Jim said, his voice lower now, edged with warning, "and you’re off."

The words landed... harder than Roman would have liked. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, his jaw ticking once. Then his gaze dropped briefly to the hand on his arm. That was enough to make Jim release him.

"I don’t make mistakes," Roman said quietly, his tone controlled, almost cold. "And I’m not starting now." Then he pulled free and walked on without another glance.

Jim watched him go, his eyes narrowing as Roman stormed in the direction of the locker room. Just then, Vance stepped up beside him. His gaze followed Roman’s retreating figure, unreadable.

"You’re really going to let him walk into the game like that?" Vance asked, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "After everything?"

Jim frowned slightly, glancing at him before looking back down the hallway. "There’s nothing I can do," he muttered. "He’s the boss’s son."

Vance smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "Well," he said, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate ease, "the boss would like the world to know exactly where this arena’s loyalty lies." The words lingered, vague, but heavy with implication.

Jim’s stomach tightened.

And just like that, the game was no longer just a game.