The Pucking Ice king

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 earlier.

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 Executive Suite B. This was where Potter told me I would find him. My first official briefing. Before my fingers could touch the metal handle, an explosive shatter ripped through the quiet of the hallway. The sound of heavy metal tearing from drywall was followed instantly by the violent, deafening implosion of glass. I jumped backward, my breath catching violently in my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Silence followed.

 Then, a low, gravelly string of curses vibrated right through the concrete beneath my boots. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to turn around. To run back to my empty bank account, my overdue rent, and my quiet classroom. But the mental image of the red eviction notice sitting on my kitchen counter anchored me. I took a deep, shaky breath, swiped the keycard, and pushed the door open. The executive lounge looked like a bomb had gone off.

 A massive sixty-inch flat-screen TV had been brutally ripped off its wall brackets, dangling by a few shredded wires, its screen a spiderwebbed bleed of black liquid crystal. On the carpet lay the shattered remnants of a heavy ceramic lamp-hundreds of jagged, glittering shards catching the harsh fluorescent lights.

 Standing in the center of the ruin was Logan McAllister. The photos didn't do his size justice. He stood well over six-foot-five, his lean, terrifyingly muscular frame clad only in grey sweatpants and a tight black training shirt that stretched to the limit over the ridiculous breadth of his shoulders.

 His chest heaved. His knuckles were raw, bleeding slightly where he'd struck the wall. He didn't look up when the door clicked shut. He was just staring at his own blood.

 "The schedule is garbage," he growled, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to scrape against the walls of the room.

"Tell Potter I'm not doing the youth hockey clinic. If a kid gets in my crease, I'm not playing nice."

"Mr. McAllister," I said. My voice was higher than usual, tight, but it came out clear. Logan froze. Slowly, his head turned. His messy, ink-black hair fell across his forehead, shadowing his features, but those striking, cold grey eyes locked onto mine. Chipped ice. That's what they looked like.

 He looked me up and down-taking in my small five-foot-two stature, my pale, heart-shaped face, and the way my hands were white-knuckling my briefcase like a shield.

 A slow grin spread across his face. It wasn't friendly. It was the look of a predator noticing a stray lamb that had willingly stumbled into his cage.

"What the hell are you?" he asked, his tone dripping with immediate hostility.

  "I'm Rhea Davies," I said, stepping further into the room, my eyes tracking the glass shards on the floor.

 "I am your new director of public relations. We are going to rebuild your image."

 Logan let out a short, harsh laugh. He walked toward me.

 His movements were deliberate, and entirely unbothered by the glass crunching beneath his sneakers.

 With every step he took, the physical disparity between us became suffocating. He stopped just inches away, completely blotting out the light above me. The scent of him-soap, cold ice, and raw, aggressive heat-invaded my lungs.

 "A publicist," he purred, leaning down until his face was level with mine. I could see the faint silver scar splitting his left eyebrow. "Potter sent me a babysitter. And a tiny, pathetic one at that."

 "I am the person standing between you and a lifetime ban from the league," I said, staring straight into his grey eyes, though my insides were trembling.

 "If you want to keep playing hockey, you will sit down, and you will listen to my strategy." Logan didn't move. His gaze dropped to my mouth, his eyes narrowing as he caught the tiny, frantic twitch of my lips.

 He smirked. "Your jaw is tight, mouse," he mocked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He'd spotted the crack in my armor.

He was already driving a blade into it.

 "What's the matter? Can't get the words out? You gonna s-s-stutter for me?" A hot spike of humiliation flared in my chest. My childhood trauma, weaponized in less than sixty seconds by a man who didn't even know my middle name.

 The block formed instantly at the base of my tongue-thick, heavy, and paralyzing. Before I could step back, Logan's hand shot out. His fingers were massive, his palm rough and calloused from years of gripping a goalie stick. He didn't hit me. Instead, his fingers clamped around my jaw, his thumb and forefinger tilting my face upward with terrifying force.

 His grip was not enough to break bone, but more than enough to make me realize I couldn't escape.

 He forced me onto my tiptoes, crowding me back until the small of my back slammed into the concrete wall.

"Let... go," I whispered. The L caught in my throat, a humiliating confirmation of his mockery.

"No," Logan whispered back. He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear, his hot breath scorching my skin.

 His eyes were wide, unhinged, and burning with a sudden, dark fixation. "You don't manage me, mouse," he growled, the vibration of his voice echoing inside my skull. "You look like something breakable. I think I'm going to keep you around just to see how long it takes for you to snap." He released my jaw suddenly, the abrupt loss of his touch making my head snap forward.

He looked down at me one last time, completely devoid of mercy, before turning his back on me. My heart was thumping in my throat. My skin felt branded where his fingers had just been, a rush of  adrenaline flooding my system. Every survival instinct I possessed begged me to drop the briefcase and run. But as I looked at Logan McAllister-dangerous, volatile, and utterly unhinged-I adjusted my trench coat. I straightened my spine.

"Our first  meeting is tomorrow at ten AM," I said, my voice shaking slightly, but holding its ground. "Be in a suit. And don't be late."