Chapter 4: Meet the Pack

  The ice rink smelled of sharp ozone, frozen sweat, and freezing metal. I stood behind the thick plexiglass barrier, the collar of my trench coat pulled up to my chin to hide the faint, fading pressure marks Logan’s fingers had left on my neck yesterday morning. My notes were gripped tightly in my gloved hands, but I wasn't looking at marketing strategies anymore. I was studying a predator in his natural habitat.

  On the ice, Logan McAllister was an unrecognizable machine.

  Clad in full Tigers gear, his custom matte-black mask hid every trace of his humanity. He looked twice as wide as he did in a suit, his heavy leather pads absorbing the impact of seventy-mile-per-hour pucks with explosive, echoing cracks. He didn't glide; his heavy steel blades sliced into the ice with a violent, rhythmic scraping that sounded like a butcher's knife against a cutting board.

  Clack. Slice. Thud.

  He was in the middle of a shooting drill, and his teammates were deliberately avoiding his gaze. No one congratulated him when he made a spectacular glove save. No one tapped his pads. They skated around his blue crease like it was surrounded by landmines.

  "Don't get too close to the glass, love. He smells fear."

  I jumped slightly, turning my head. A player had skated up to the bench right in front of me, leaning his massive arms over the heavy wooden boards. His jersey bore the name Trey across the shoulders. He had messy blond hair, a crooked nose that had clearly been broken twice, and a genuine, easy smile that felt entirely out of place in this ruthless organization.

  "I'm Trey," he said, pulling off his heavy glove to offer a calloused hand. "Left winger. You must be Rhea. The new sacrifice to the goalie gods."

  "Rhea Davies," I said, my voice tight. I forced my throat to relax, testing the words. "I'm... just observing."

  Trey’s smile faded slightly as he looked closer at my face. He noticed the slight tremor in my fingers, the dark circles under my hazel eyes, and the rigid, defensive way I held my spine. He picked up a cold bottle of water from the bench tray and held it out to me across the top of the glass.

  "You look like you haven't breathed in twenty-four hours," Trey said softly, his tone laced with actual kindness. "Take the water, Rhea. Don't let him get to you. Logan’s a psycho, but the team... we’ve got your back if things get too crazy."

  A sudden wave of emotion hit me—stubborn, pathetic tears pricking the backs of my eyes. It was the first piece of genuine human kindness I’d received since entering this facility. I reached out to take the bottle. "Th-Thank—"

  A deafening, metallic screech cut me off.

  I didn't even see him cross the blue line. Logan had charged from his net, his heavy goalie skates tearing into the ice with terrifying, predatory speed. He didn't slow down. He threw his massive, armored body weight directly into the plexiglass right where Trey and I were standing.

  The barrier rattled violently, the sound exploding through the empty arena like a gunshot.

  Before Trey could even turn around, Logan’s massive blocker pad caught him by the shoulder, shoving the winger brutally against the glass. The impact made the metal frame groan. Logan’s blacked-out mask was inches from Trey’s face, his chest heaving like a feral animal.

  "Get the fuck away from her, Trey," Logan growled, his voice a muffled, vibrating rasp behind the steel cage of his helmet.

  "Jesus, Logan! Calm down, it's just a bottle of water!" Trey yelled, his skates skittering on the ice as he tried to regain his balance against the suffocating weight of the goalie’s chest protector.

  "She doesn't need your water. And she doesn't need your mouth," Logan snarled, his heavy goalie stick striking the ice with a sharp slap that made the nearby players freeze in their tracks. Across the ice, the defenseman, Steak, watched silently, shaking his head but making no move to intervene. The rest of the pack simply backed away, gliding backward into the shadows. They wouldn't risk their own skin for a publicist.

  Logan turned his hidden face toward me through the glass. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I felt the exact moment his icy gaze locked onto my throat.

  "She belongs to my staff," Logan barked, his voice echoing across the quiet rink, ensuring every player heard the claim. "You look at her again, you touch her again, and I’ll break your ribs during the next scrimmage. Am I clear?"

  Trey shoved Logan’s pad away, his face flushed with anger but muted by the unspoken, brutal hierarchy of the locker room. "You're unhinged, man." He skated away toward the far blue line, leaving the space empty.

  Logan didn't skate back to his net. He stood right at the barrier, his heavy, padded chest pressing against the glass, trapping my tiny shadow beneath his. He lifted his gloved hand, tapping the heavy leather pointer finger against the plexiglass right in front of my face.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  "Inside," he muttered, the command low and absolute. "My locker room. Five minutes, mouse. Don't make me come get you."

  The five minutes felt like five seconds.

  I stood outside the heavy double doors of the private varsity locker room, my breathing shallow, my fingers digging into the leather strap of my briefcase until the stitching bit into my palms. The hallway was empty, but the heavy, muffled bass of music vibrating through the wood told me the team was inside.

  Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale.

  I couldn't look weak. If I showed a crack now, he would wedge his fingers into it and tear my entire life apart. I pushed the door open.

  The air inside was a dense, suffocating fog of steam, athletic rub, and damp leather. It was a massive, circular room lined with custom oak stalls, each one overflowing with heavy pads, sticks, and jerseys. A few players were unlacing their skates. The moment the door clicked shut, the low chatter died instantly.

  Trey was sitting on the far bench, a trainer pressing a bag of ice to his shoulder. He looked up at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of frustration and warning. He opened his mouth to say something, but a heavy shadow blocked my view.

  Logan was standing by his stall at the far end of the room. He had stripped off his upper armor, leaving him in nothing but his low hockey pants and a grey compression shirt soaked in sweat. His messy, ink-black hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked larger, more menacing here—stripped of the ice but carrying all of its violence.

  "Out," Logan baritoned. He didn't look at his teammates. He didn't look at the trainer. His grey eyes were pinned directly to my face. "Everyone out."

  "Logan, we're in the middle of post-skate treatment—" the trainer started.

  "I said get the fuck out," Logan snarled, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass light fixtures above us rattle.

  Nobody argued. The power dynamic in the room was absolute. The players grabbed their towels and hurried toward the showers, their eyes fixed on the floorboards as they passed me. Trey paused for a fraction of a second when he reached the door, his hand hovering near my shoulder, but a low, dangerous growl from Logan made him think better of it. The door clicked shut. We were alone.

  The silence was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic drip, drip of a leaky shower head down the hall.

  Logan walked toward me, his heavy skate guards thudding against the rubber floor. He didn't stop until he was crowding me back against the locker room door, his massive frame trapping me in the narrow entryway. The scent of him—sharp ozone, intense sweat, and raw, territorial heat—flooded my senses, making my head spin.

  "You like the attention, mouse?" he purred, leaning down so his face was level with mine. The silver scar over his eyebrow twitched. "You like having my wingers offer you water? You like making me look like a fucking idiot on my own ice?"

  "H-He was just being polite," I said, my voice fracturing on the first syllable. The stutter was clawing at my throat, desperate to break through. "We are... we are supposed to be professional, Logan. You violently assaulted a teammate because of a bottle of water."

  "I don't give a shit about the water," Logan whispered, his hand shooting out to grip the wood of the door frame right beside my ear. The force of his palm hitting the oak made me flinch. "I care about what's mine. I told you yesterday. I own you for the next six months. That means you don't talk to them. You don't smile at them. You don't take a goddamn thing from their hands."

  "I am an employee of the Tigers—"

  "You're my publicist," he interrupted, his other hand coming up to catch my jaw. His thumb pressed brutally into the soft skin beneath my chin, forcing my head back until my skull tapped against the door. His grey eyes were wide, unhinged, and burning with a dark, terrifying fixation. "Look at me. Look at my eyes, Rhea."

  I forced myself to meet his gaze, my hazel eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a strange, dizzying rush of adrenaline that disgusted me to my core. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs I was certain he could hear it.

  "You're a fragile little thing," he murmured, his voice softening into something far more dangerous than his anger—a quiet, toxic curiosity. His thumb stroked roughly across my bottom lip, tracing the shape of it. "So soft-spoken. So broken. I can feel you shaking against the wood. You're terrified of me, aren't you?"

  "L-Let... let go," I whispered, the words tripping over my tongue.

  "Never," Logan whispered back, his face dropping lower until his lips brushed against the shell of my ear. His hot breath scorched my skin. "You belong in my crease now, mouse. And if anyone else tries to touch what's mine, I won't just shove them against the glass. I'll end their career. Do you understand me?"

  He squeezed my jaw one last time—a firm, marking pressure—before releasing me. He stepped back, a cold, victorious smirk pulling at his mouth as he watched me slide slightly down the door, my legs trembling beneath my trench coat.

  "Our PR strategy meeting is at my penthouse tonight at eight," he said, turning his back to me as he walked toward his stall. "Don't be late. And Rhea?"

  I kept my hand firmly on the doorknob, my chest heaving as I tried to regain my breath. "What?"

  "Wear something that covers your neck," he baritoned, not looking back. "I don't want the guys seeing where my fingers left their mark."