Chapter Four – The Enemy’s Ice

Logan’s Pov

“Logan!! Over here!!!”

Reporters shoved microphones in my face, lights flashing like we’d won the goddamn cup. We hadn’t. We’d lost. Again.

Still, I grinned, because the sting of defeat was nothing compared to the pleasure of poking Damian Blackwell right where it hurt.

A journalist cleared her throat. “Logan, how do you feel about working under an owner like Damian Blackwell?”

The smart move would’ve been a generic answer, which would be something about teamwork, learning the system, blah blah. But being smart wasn’t fun.

I leaned into the mic, a mischievous smile on my face. “Finally,” I said, loud enough for the back row to hear, “He’s a damn pain.”

The locker room was nearly empty when I walked in, the acrid sting of sweat and disinfectant lingering in the air. I pulled my jersey off, dropping it on the bench, chest still heaving from the game.

“You have fun embarrassing me, don't you?” Damien’s voice pulled straight down my spine. I stiffened for a moment before I turned. Damian stood in the doorway, too intense, too gorgeous, his suit hugging like sin in a world of rusty lockers and stained gym towels.

I smiled, veiling the shock that I’d noticed how good he was looking. "Humiliating? I call it honesty."

He stepped in, every movement slow, predatory, and the room shrank with him in it. I should have stepped back, but pride stopped me. Instead, I pulled off my towel and my jersey, leaving just my shorts and I tossed it carelessly over my shoulders.

“You think your mouth makes you smart." His voice was menacing, but I saw his eyes dip down to my shorts, before he closed the distance and threw his hand on the locker next to my head, pushing me against it without touching me.

My heart fluttered, but I let my smile widen. "Maybe it does. Or maybe you just do not know what to do with a man who won't kneel."

His eyes twitched like he was fighting against something. He sniffed the air and closed his eyes, and when he opened them, for a moment, they were no longer brown. They were grey. His eyes dropped down again but this time, to my lips. He hooked a finger under my jaw and tipped my head up. “There’s only so much I can condone, Logan. You need to be punished.”

Then he was in motion. His body bridged that final inch and his chest rubbed against mine. With his other hand grabbed my wrist firmly, jerking it up against the frigid metal. Not too tight at least not to inflict pain, but to remind me who was in charge.

I could have thrown him over. I didn't. I was turned on instead.

Damian's breath fluttered against my lips, as though he was struggling with himself. His eyes now brown, almost like I’d imagined it being grey, now flamed, like he was hungry for me, like restraining himself was costing him something pointed. My tongue darted over my lip, involuntarily, and he cursed softly under his breath, almost a growl.

For one insane heartbeat, his lips brushed against mine, and I found myself leaning into him, just as I felt a bulge in his pants as he pressed into me. I braced myself for a kiss. But it never came.

Damien ripped back, his fists clenching. His voice was hoarse and close to shattered. "Be careful, Cross. You don't have any clue what game you are playing."

I gulped, not even bothering to conceal the shudder coursing through my system. "Then, teach me."

“Well…. Isn’t this delicious.”

Both our heads snapped up.

Julian Drake strolled into the locker room like he’d been invited, his tailored coat swinging behind him and he was wearing a faux smile on his face. Julian Drake was the owner of a rival hockey team and we’d be playing against them in the next game. What the hell did he want?

Damian stiffened, releasing me like I burned him. I stayed against the wall, and Julian’s gaze ran between us, taking in the scene. Damian pressed too close, and I was not pushing him away. 

“Didn’t realize press conferences after a game got so… physical.”

“Get out,” Damian snapped, his voice more animal than human.

Julian ignored him. His eyes were locked on me. “Logan Cross. You’ve got a mouth on you. I like that.”

I raised a brow, still catching my breath. “Do I know you?” I knew exactly who he was though.

“Oh, you will.” He rubbed his hands together. “Julian Drake. I own the Thunderhawks.”

Julian’s gaze swept over me again, but it was appreciative. “You don’t belong under his thumb. You belong with someone who knows how to use a weapon like you.”

“Back off,” Damian growled, stepping toward Julian, his hands curled into fists by his side, and I wondered briefly if Damian was always angry.

Julian ignored him, stepping closer. “I’ll double whatever Damian’s paying you. Triple it, if that’s what it takes. Contracts are just paper. And paper burns.”

I swallowed hard, pulse still racing from Damian’s grip. Part of me wanted to laugh it off, call Julian’s bluff. But another part of me, the reckless, hungry part, leaned into Julian’s play.

I smirked. “Sounds tempting.”

Julian’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, it will be. So what do you say?”