The air seemed to drain from the room as Magnus’s verdict settled over the table.

For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The silence stretched, thick, suffocating, threatening to swallow everything whole.

Then—

"You can’t be serious!" The words burst out of Roman before he could stop them. His chair creaked faintly beneath him as he leaned forward, his pulse pounding hard in his ears.

"Players fight all the time. Hockey is a violent game. Why am I the one being singled out for this?" he asked.

A few nodded, and that was enough.

"You’re right," Magnus replied, a faint, knowing smirk settling on his lips. His voice remained calm. "Incidents happen on the ice." He paused, letting the words hang for a fraction too long. "But no one," he continued, his gaze sharpening, "has sent a fellow player into a coma, until you decided to set that record."

The words landed like heavy blows.

"I never did that!" Roman snapped, his hands curling into fists against the table. "Leo was fine after the fight," then his voice faltered slightly. "Even if he was bleeding," he added more quietly, the memory flashing unbidden through his mind.

"Well," one of the panel members said dryly, leaning back in his chair, "I suppose we can all assume you didn’t bother checking on him afterward."

A low murmur of agreement followed.

"Whatever happened to sportsmanship?" another man scoffed, shaking his head. "This generation."

Magnus leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his eyes fixed on Roman. "Did you check on him," he asked, "before you ran off that night?"

Roman’s jaw locked. For a split second, the room blurred as memory surged forward.

Magnus’s men pulling him away, the firm warning to stay away from Leo, the quiet assurance that everything would be handled. Handled. And now?

Now it was being turned against him, but still he said nothing.

"I see," Magnus said softly after a beat, leaning back. "I believe his silence answers the question."

"You’re quite something," one of the panel members muttered with a scoff. "I support the chairman’s verdict."

One by one, the others nodded, their agreement falling into place like pieces of a puzzle already decided.

Roman felt something sink deep in his chest. He could speak. He could tell them everything about Magnus, about the manipulation, the control. But even as the thought surfaced, it died just as quickly. It was pointless.

For all he knew, Magnus was already ten steps ahead, and the best strategy would be to retreat and fight another day.

"It’s decided then," Magnus said, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. "You are dismissed, Roman Whitehall." He paused, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. "Official communication will follow. And take note, the punishment begins immediately."

Roman gave a single, tight nod. There was nothing left to argue. He pushed back his chair; the legs scraped sharply against the floor, the sound echoing louder than it should have. His jaw set, he turned and walked toward the door, each step steady despite the storm inside him.

At the door, he paused, drew in a slow, measured breath. Then he opened it and stepped out, releasing the air from his lungs as if he’d been holding it the entire time.

The lobby beyond felt cooler, quieter. For the first time since he’d walked in, it felt like he could actually breathe, but the relief barely lasted. His phone buzzed in his pocket, freezing him in place.

His heart kicked hard against his ribs as he pulled it out, his gaze dropping to the screen. What now?

It was a message from Magnus.

Roman’s expression hardened the moment he saw the name flash across his screen. His thumb hovered for a second before he opened it, a faint tension settling along his jaw.

"This is one more proof that without me, your career is gone. So the choice is yours."

Roman let out a slow, sharp exhale, his chest rising and falling as the words sank in. For a brief moment, he simply stared at the screen, his mind racing, thoughts colliding faster than he could sort them.

Then he locked the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. No response, none needed. He just stepped forward.

He had barely taken two strides when he spotted Lena walking toward him. His brows drew together instantly. Without a word, he turned his gaze away, angling his body to pass her without stopping.

Lena noticed, and her shoulders dipped slightly at the look on his face, but she quickened her pace, her steps echoing faintly against the tiled floor as she moved to intercept him.

"I know you hate me right now," she said, breath slightly uneven, "but you can’t go out there."

Roman didn’t slow down. "Get out of my way, Lena," he said flatly, brushing past her shoulder. "I don’t have time for your nonsense."

She spun quickly, hurrying ahead of him and planting herself in his path, her arms stretched wide as if she could physically block him.

"I can’t let you go out there," she insisted, her chest rising as she tried to steady her breathing. "There’s trouble. You need to come with me."

Roman stopped short, irritation flashing across his face.

"Listen to me, Roman!" Lena cut in, her voice sharper now, frustration threading through it. "The press is out there. The Saunders are there too, with their supporters. If you step outside, they will tear you apart."

For a moment, Roman hesitated. The distant murmur of voices seeped faintly through the walls, just enough to confirm her warning. His gaze flicked toward the direction of the main exit, then back to her.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate. "At least I know who’s out there and what they want," he said, his tone cooling. "You, on the other hand, are the last person I can trust." He stepped around her. "So I’ll take my chances with the front door."

"Roman—"

He didn’t stop. Behind him, Lena pressed a hand to her forehead, frustration slipping into her voice as she called after him.

"Stop being stubborn! You don’t have to trust me, you just need to use your head. Come out the back with me. My car is already there!"

Her words followed him down the corridor, but he gave no sign that he heard. He kept walking. As he reached the turn leading to the main exit, he pivoted and froze.

A surge of noise spilled into view. Through the glass, he caught sight of a swarm of reporters clustered tightly around a woman, microphones thrust forward, cameras raised, flashes flickering like bursts of lightning.

Roman instinctively stepped back, pressing himself against the wall, just out of sight. The cool surface bit faintly through his shirt, grounding him for a second as his pulse spiked.

"Mrs. Saunders," one of the reporters called out, voice cutting through the chaos, "what do you think about the verdict after watching the panel?"

Roman’s brows knit sharply, his breath stopped in his chest. "The hearing was aired?" he murmured under his breath, disbelief settling heavily in his chest.