The Billionaire Alpha's Sin Bin

(Damian’s POV)

I had never hated hope more than I did when Logan Cross touched the puck.

From my glass box above the rink, I could see the s blades carving the ice, the red-and-white blur of jerseys, the breath of twenty thousand fans fogging up the rafters. And him. Always him.

Logan was a brash, reckless twenty-two year old with curly hair that refused to stay down and green eyes that were as sharp as glass, and he had the kind of arrogance that made people lean into him even though they silently despised him. But he had the right to be arrogant, because he was the best hockey player in the country.

I had staked everything on that arrogance for my team.

The Chicago Phantoms weren’t just my team,they were also mixed in with members of my pack. Our championship run was tied directly to the biggest sponsorship deal in league history with Titan Energy. If we didn’t win, if Logan didn’t deliver… then the deal collapsed, and with it, the illusion of control I had built since inheriting my father’s fortune and his curse would cease to exist and I might lose my status in the pack as the alpha.

My wolf shifted restlessly beneath my skin, claws raking against my ribs. Watch him. I told it to shut up, because tonight, Logan looked unstoppable.

The clock ticked down in the third period. We were tied, three to three, on hostile ice against Boston. Logan had the puck and he was skilled with the damn thing. He moved through defenders like they were not moving and the sound of the crowd roaring made me whistle.

This was it, the redemption goal. The one that would make every dollar, every sleepless night fighting Julian Drake, my competition, for Logan’s contract worth it. The one that would prove to the league, the sponsors, the board that I hadn’t lost my edge.

Logan smiled, but it was cocky, and then he drew back his stick and that’s when it happened.

A Boston defender slammed into him from behind. The sound of the hit cracked across the rink like a gunshot. Logan’s helmet snapped forward, then back, before his body hit the ground.

At first the crowd kept cheering, convinced he’d spring back up like always. But he didn’t move. Five seconds passed and then ten, and then it was too long. The roar thinned into confused murmurs, then no one talked, until twenty thousand people were holding their breath.

“Get up, Logan.” I prayed, my breath fogging the glass. My hands were clenched into fists and the veins on my arms were threatening to pop out. My wolf didn’t help matters either as he howled inside me. You should go to him.

I stayed where I was, teeth bared, because rushing the ice would expose more than panic. But every second Logan stayed still, I was panicking.

Finally, the paramedics rushed in, while the teammates hovered helplessly around as they attended to Logan. I couldn’t hear the words but I could read their body language as they removed his helmet and checked his vitals. Logan was unconscious, and he wasn’t waking up.

The stadium was graveyard-quiet and fans leaned forward with their hands pressed to their mouths. Some cried, while some prayed.

And me? I was already moving.

***

I didn’t remember the drive to the hospital, just the slam of my car door and the cold Chicago night on my face as I ran into the emergency room. My tie was still knotted tight but my jacket was gone and my sleeves were rolled up to my elbows. I caught a reflection of myself in the large floor to ceiling door leading to Logan’s room.

My eyes were sunken and my hair was slightly messed up. My skin, usually pale, was even paler, and the brown of my eyes did nothing to soften the worry in my face.

The doctor found me pacing outside Logan’s room. She was a tired woman in her fifties, with wrinkles from years of delivering bad news.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she said carefully, as if measuring how much truth I could take. “Your player sustained severe cranial trauma. There’s swelling. His brain activity is unstable. If he survives the night, a coma is likely. Paralysis possible. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”

I’ve always held back my anger and prided myself on control, but suddenly, I wanted to hold her and shake her until she told me he was alright.

“Logan is comatose and might not wake up for a while. He suffered a serious hit to his skull, and has internal bleeding. We’ll have to monitor him, but I’ll advise you to hope and pray.” I dismissed her with a curt nod, not trusting myself to speak as I pushed past her and entered the room.

Logan was lying so still on the bed that it terrified me. There were tubes tied to him, and the steady beeping of the machine made my heart skip a beat. This wasn’t the wild, infuriating man who’d spent weeks taunting me in front of reporters, and acting as if he could read my thoughts. This wasn’t the rookie who ignored my orders and still delivered miracles on the ice. This wasn’t the Logan who I’d kissed only days before.

My wolf clawed against its cage. Do something. Save him. He’s ours.

“No,” I whispered, fingers digging into the rail of his bed. “He’s human. He's in trouble. He’s…”

Our Mate.

I had fought it since the first day Logan walked into my office to sign his contract, his cocky smile daring me to throw him out. I had denied it when he baited me in the press, when he shoved me in the tunnel, when he leaned a little too close during our first near-kiss.

But right now, I knew I couldn't deny it anymore.

If I let him go, I would lose the sponsorship, the championship, my pack, my empire and myself because I was beginning to feel things for this man. I had to save him with my werewolf venom, even if it was against the law to use it on humans. I leaned down, brushing my lip against his ear. “Forgive me for doing this.”

Then I let the wolf free.

My teeth sank into his shoulder, puncturing flesh. His blood was hot and tasted like metal. My wolf roared in triumph as the wound sealed instantly beneath my mouth. His skin knitted, and color returned to his cheeks. I pulled back, wiping my mouth and trembling from the force of what I've just done.

And then Logan’s eyes snapped open.

His brilliant green eyes were filled with anger and when he saw my fangs still protruding, and the change in the colour of my eyes, he spat in my face. Okay. ,I was not expecting that.

“Yiu should not have done that.” He rasped.

“Not have done what? Saved your life?” I retorted, suddenly annoyed that he’d thanked me by spitting in my face. See that arrogance?

I stepped back, my chest was suddenly tight, and my wolf snarled inside me. 

He tried to sit up, but fell back down. “No. You bound me and made me your mate. You didn’t give me a choice to refuse.”

He hated me. Of course he did. I had just stolen the last shred of control from him, the thing he prized most. But I had also saved him. 

“If you want to understand how I ended up here, and why I bit him spat in my face? Then you have to go back with me. Three months earlier.”