Curvy & Claimed by the Ex’s Hockey Rival

1

Seraphine

“‘From Ice Elf to Heavy Burden: The Fall of a Prodigy.’”

The rustle of the morning paper was loud in the quiet kitchen. Across the marble island, Magnus lowered the page just an inch, his lips twitching with an amused smirk before he reached for his coffee mug.

“Listen to this, Seraphine,” he said, his tone casual, as if he were reading out the weekend forecast. “‘Once admired across the country for her effortless jumps and clean lines, Mrs. Walter seems to have completely abandoned the discipline that made her famous. At recent team events, the star center’s wife was barely recognizable, leaving fans to wonder how a national champion could let herself go so completely.’”

He set the mug down with a soft click.

There was no irritation in his face. No sign of anger that a local gossip column was publicly dragging his wife’s name through the mud. Just that cool, entertained look he got when watching someone else fail on the ice.

My fingers tightened around my fork. On my plate, a small portion of scrambled egg whites and half an avocado sat untouched. A few minutes ago, I was actually looking forward to eating. Now, my stomach felt twisted into a knot.

“Brutal,” Magnus murmured, folding the paper in half and laying it flat on the counter. He leaned back, crossing his arms. As the team captain and their top center, his body was in peak condition, every muscle hard, disciplined, and maintained with absolute focus.

His eyes slowly traveled down my sweater. I had picked the largest knit in my closet this morning, hoping the dark fabric would hide the shape of my body. It didn't fool him. It never did.

“How much do you actually weigh now, Seraphine?”

The question hit like a bucket of cold water.

I looked down at the counter, my throat suddenly dry. “Magnus, please. Don’t do this.”

“I’m just asking.” His voice remained light, reasonable, and steady. “You haven’t stepped on a scale in front of me in months. What is it now? Two-sixty? Two-seventy?”

Heat rushed into my face, prickling along the back of my neck. I wanted to shave twenty pounds off the number. I wanted to give him any answer that would make him stop looking at me like an inspection he regretted making. But Magnus understood athletic mass better than anyone. If I lied, he would only mock me for trying.

I kept my eyes pinned to the marble. “Two hundred and ninety.”

For a second, the kitchen went dead silent.

Then, Magnus let out a sharp, breathless laugh.

He shook his head, looking at me with pure disbelief. “Two-ninety. Jesus, Seraphine. You’re practically three hundred pounds. You’re built like a hippo.”

The word felt like a physical slap, but I forced myself not to react. I picked up my fork, desperate for something normal to do with my hands. I pushed a piece of avocado around the plate, trying to breathe through the burning pressure behind my eyes.

“Are you seriously still going to eat that?”

His voice cut through the quiet, flat and disgusted.

I froze, the fork hovering inches above the plate.

“Look at you,” he said, gesturing toward me with one hand. “You’ve completely let yourself go. There isn't a single thing attractive or appealing about you anymore. I don’t even see a woman when I look at you. And the second you hear the truth, you reach right back for food. How do you even have the nerve to sit there and eat when you look like this?”

“This is my first meal of the day,” I said quietly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. I placed the fork down. “I’ve been dieting, Magnus. I’ve been walking on the treadmill every morning—”

“Clearly, it’s not doing anything,” he cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “You can blame your routine all you want, but the reality is simple: you have zero self-control. You just can’t stop eating.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the counter.

“Remember what you looked like when we met?” His gaze hardened. “A hundred and twenty-eight pounds. You had muscle, grace, and poise. People used to envy me just for having you on my arm. Now? I dread bringing you anywhere near the team because I know everyone is whispering behind our backs.”

The words drove deep into bruises that had never really healed. I had heard versions of this speech for years, but today, with that newspaper sitting between us, it felt heavier. I wanted to tell him that my body had been through hell. I wanted to remind him of everything I had lost while standing by his side.

But I stayed silent. I already knew that any defense I offered would be labeled another excuse.

Before he could say another word, his phone buzzed loudly against the counter.

Magnus checked the screen. The sneer dropped from his face instantly, replaced by the polished, charming demeanor he reserved for the public. He swiped the call open.

“Lukeman,” Magnus said, his voice warm and engaged as he stood up from the stool. “Yeah, I saw it. Don’t worry about it, I’m ready for the camp check-in. I’m heading to the facility right now.”

He didn't look back at me. He didn't say goodbye, ask if I was okay, or even acknowledge that he had just shredded whatever dignity I had left. Magnus grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, pulled it shut behind him, and left.

The apartment went completely quiet.

My shoulders dropped, the tight tension in my back finally giving way. I covered my face with both hands, letting out a long, shaky breath that caught in my chest.

My eyes wandered toward the hallway console table, where a single crystal figure skate caught the morning light.

The Ice Elf.

At fifteen, they called me a prodigy. By nineteen, I was standing on national podiums, hearing thousands of people cheer every time my blades touched the ice. The rink had been my entire world. It was the one place where everything felt simple, clean, and within my control.

Then came the fall.

A severe ankle ligament tear, brought on by relentless overtraining and a bad landing during practice. I was twenty years old. I tried everything to rehab it, but the joint was never stable enough for competitive jumps again. Just like that, my career was over before it had properly begun.

Soon after, I married Magnus.

He was charming then, attentive, promising that he would take care of me. But when the chronic pain from the injury flared up, the doctors put me on high-dose medications and steroids. My metabolism slowed down.

Then came the miscarriages. Three of them in four years. Three rounds of hormonal therapies, three heartbreaks, and an overwhelming grief that hollowed me out from the inside.

With each loss, Magnus grew colder. He stayed late at the rink. He stopped touching me. The warmth drained out of our home, until living with him felt like sharing a roof with a stranger who resented my presence.

And in that cold, silent apartment, food had become the only thing that felt safe. It didn't judge me. It didn't demand perfection. It was just comfort when there was none left anywhere else.

A slight breeze from the kitchen vent shifted the newspaper on the counter.

A fresh sting of humiliation flared in my chest. I reached across the island and grabbed the paper, intending to throw it straight into the trash can so I wouldn't have to look at it again.

Then my eyes caught the byline just below the headline.

By: Sasha Lindqvist.

My hand tightened on the newsprint, crushing the edge of the page.

Sasha.

The name pulled up memories of cold rinks and bitter rivalries eight years ago. Sasha was the girl who had trained alongside me for years, the one who finished behind me at competition after competition, glaring at my gold medals from the lower steps of the podium.

Now, eight years after my retirement, she was a sports journalist.

Sasha had spent years losing to me on the ice.

Now, eight years later, she had finally found another way to beat me.

And this time, my own husband was cheering her on.