All Chapters of The Pucking Ice King : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The walk down into the Tigers’ private training facility took three minutes, and I spent every second of it trying not to throw up the black coffee I’d had for breakfast. The facility was an isolated, sprawling complex of concrete and tinted glass, tucked away near a dense treeline far outside the city. It looked less like a sports complex and more like a high-security black site. Potter’s electronic keycard burned a hole through the fabric of my trench coat pocket. I am a piano teacher, I reminded myself desperately. I teach seven-year-olds how to find middle C. I didn't belong in the den of a multi-million-dollar monster. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale. My heels clicked with an echoing, fragile rhythm against the polished concrete floor of the subterranean corridor. The air down here smelled of shaved ice, expensive rubber, and the damp, metallic tang of an arena. The deeper I went, the sharper the chill became. I stopped outside the heavy frosted-glass door labeled Executi

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

The press box felt like a sterile glass prison hanging high above the roaring arena. I sat stiffly in my assigned seat, my headset clamped over my ears and my clipboard digging into my thighs. Twenty thousand fans packed the stands, their collective energy crackling like electricity before a lightning strike. Below me, the ice gleamed under the blinding rafters as the Tigers took the ice for Logan McAllister’s first game back from his league suspension. My body still carried the physical receipt of last night at his penthouse. The deep bruises on my hips throbbed with every small movement, and the dark mark he’d sucked into my neck was hidden beneath a high-collared silk blouse. Even with the roar of the crowd, I could still hear the ghost of his gravelly whisper replaying in my mind: Soon it’ll be under my cock, too. The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena speakers. “And in net… number thirty-four… Logan McAllister!” The crowd’s reaction was viciously split. A few pock

The arena lights were finally dimming behind me as I stepped out into the biting midnight air. The media spin session had dragged on for grueling hours—follow-up interviews, emergency damage-control meetings with Potter Watts, and endless revisions to the talking points for tomorrow’s youth hockey charity drive. My feet ached in my heels, and my shoulders felt permanently locked from the sheer exertion of holding myself together in Logan McAllister's presence. The parking lot was nearly empty, just a few staff vehicles and my modest sedan waiting under the harsh, buzzing glow of the sodium security lamps. I clutched my bag tighter against my ribs, the weight of my laptop and PR binders digging into my side. For a brief, foolish moment, I allowed myself a small victory. The press conference had gone better than expected. Logan had actually followed the script. Public perception was starting to tilt, even if only by a fraction. Maybe this contract would end faster than I feared. M

The United Center in Chicago was a roaring cauldron of pure hostility. Twenty-two thousand fans packed the arena, the vast majority of them screaming for the Vipers to dismantle us. The historic rivalry between the Tigers and Chicago was legendary—defined by dirty hits, relentless bench chirping, and unadulterated hatred on the ice. Tonight, with Logan McAllister back between the pipes, the tension in the air was electric. I watched from the sterile cage of the press box, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. On the ice, Logan was a force of nature. His massive six-foot-five frame dominated the blue paint like it was his personal kingdom. Every time a Viper forward dared to crash his net, he cleared them out with violent, mathematical precision—his stick chopping at ankles, his blocker delivering punishing, bone-rattling hits. Marcus Vance, Chicago’s star forward, spent the entire game chirping him relentlessly after the whistles. “Still juicing, McAllister? Or are you just fuc