You Traded Me for Your Ex, So I Crowned Your Worst Rival

POV: Chloe Hayes

The moving crew worked in silence, packing the last of my research equipment into reinforced crates.

I stood in the center of the penthouse living room, watching five years of my life get dismantled in less than two hours. Every medical textbook, every custom-built diagnostic sensor, and every piece of clothing I had purchased with my own earnings went straight into cardboard boxes. By the time the movers loaded the second dolly, the high-rise felt hollow.

I walked over to the open kitchen island.

Sitting on the marble counter was a stack of framed photographs from the last five seasons. Pictures of Logan hoisting regional trophies, smiling at banquets, and celebrating playoff victories. In every single one, I was standing half a step behind him, keeping him upright while staying completely out of the frame.

I pulled a pair of heavy shears from my pocket.

Without pausing, I sliced through each photograph, cutting myself out of every frame before tossing Logan’s grinning face into the trash bin. Next, I pulled down the heavy leather binder from the shelf—the master nutrition registry I had built from scratch. It contained his blood-sugar tracking sheets, micro-nutrient schedules, and anti-inflammatory meal plans designed specifically to prevent his chronic joint swelling. The required clinical records were already archived in the Storm's medical system; this binder was my personal working copy.

I carried the binder over to the cross-cut shredder by the desk and fed the pages through.

The machine hummed steadily, reducing hundreds of hours of metabolic research into tiny white strips.

The electronic lock on the front door beeped, followed by the heavy thud of the door swinging open. Logan stumbled into the foyer, his tie completely undone, smelling of single-malt whiskey and stale victory cigars.

He paused when he saw the stacked boxes by the entrance, his eyebrows pulling together in an irritated frown.

"What the hell is all this?" he asked, leaning his weight against the wall.

When he saw the bare shelves and the empty living room, the irritation on his face melted into an arrogant smirk. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and let out a dry, condescending chuckle.

"You really hired a moving crew?" Logan shook his head, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. "You're actually going through with this little dramatic performance?"

I continued feeding the last sheet of his recovery protocol into the shredder without glancing up. "They're almost done."

"Cut the crap, Chloe," Logan said, walking toward the counter with unsteady steps. "You think packing up a few boxes is going to make me panic? You think I'm going to beg you to unpack?"

He leaned against the island, crossing his ankles and looking down at me with smug confidence.

"You always do this whenever you feel threatened," he said smoothly. "You throw a fit, play the martyr, and wait for me to throw you a bone. But you overplayed your hand tonight at the arena."

"I'm not playing anything, Logan."

"Sure you aren't," he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "You know Finals tickets are going for five thousand dollars a seat on the resale market right now? People would sell their cars just to sit in the nosebleeds for Game One."

He tilted his chin up, studying me with cold calculation.

"If you drop to your knees right now, admit you were out of line, and promise to give Serena a full, formal apology before practice tomorrow, I might still be generous," Logan said. "I'll talk to management. I'll get you a pass in the family section so you can watch me lift the cup."

I watched the final paper shred drop into the waste bin. The machine powered down, leaving the penthouse completely quiet.

I turned around, opened my shoulder bag, and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

"You really believe you're untouchable, don't you?" I asked quietly.

"I'm the best center in the league," Logan snapped, his chest puffing out. "I earned every single dollar and every single ounce of fame I have."

"You didn't earn shit on your own."

I stepped forward and slammed the folder directly against his chest.

The heavy clasp burst open on impact. Dozens of papers scattered across his suit jacket, fluttering down around his expensive Italian leather shoes.

"What is this garbage?" Logan barked, glancing down in disgust.

"That's five years of itemized living expenses, mortgage split calculations you promised to pay and never did, and the official legal termination of my independent medical contract," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a razor.

Logan looked down, seeing spreadsheets detailing hundreds of thousands of dollars in shared costs, alongside legal forms bearing the official stamp of the league's legal affairs office.

"Look closely at the medical logs, Logan," I continued, pointing at the scattered sheets on the floor. "Every single time the media called your recovery a 'miracle,' it wasn't God, and it wasn't your genetics. It was me staying awake until four in the morning to drain fluid from your knee with localized anti-inflammatory formulas I synthesized myself. It was me working through the night to release your shoulder nerve block so you could lift your stick the next day."

Logan’s jaw clenched tight, the veins on his temples bulging as his drunken bravado collided with reality.

"You think you carried me?" Logan snarled, stepping hard on the papers, crushing the printouts under his heel. "I scored forty-eight goals this season! I took the hits! I put the puck in the net! You're just a glorified masseuse who happened to be holding the ice pack!"

"Then let's see how many goals you score when your rotator cuff locks up during the first period on Wednesday," I said flatly. "Let's see what Serena’s high-society connections do when your joint inflammation spikes and you can't raise your right arm above your collarbone."

Logan scoffed, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unbridled malice.

"Serena is ten times the woman you'll ever be," he roared, leaning down until his eyes were inches from mine. "She has real power. She has real class. And I don't need your back-alley oils to win games. I was born to dominate this league. Leaving you is the best thing that ever happened to my career. Without you dragging me down, I'm going to sweep the Finals and take the championship trophy on my own."

"Good luck with that," I said.

I picked up the handle of my hard-shell suitcase, turned my back on him, and walked toward the foyer.

"Walk out that door, Chloe!" Logan yelled after me, his voice echoing off the bare concrete walls. "Go ahead! When you're sleeping in some cheap motel and realize nobody else in this city gives a damn about you, don't you dare come crying to my locker room!"

I stepped through the doorway and let the heavy penthouse door click shut behind me, cutting his voice off completely.

The elevator ride down to the ground floor took less than a minute. The moving truck was already pulling away from the loading bay, heading toward the private storage facility where my personal laboratory equipment would be safely housed.

I wheeled my single suitcase through the glass lobby doors and out into the cool night air.

A light mist was drifting across the street, reflecting the distant neon lights of the arena district.

Before I could take three steps toward the curb, a sleek, midnight-black Maybach glided out of the shadows, pulling up directly against the sidewalk. The engine purred with silent, overwhelming horsepower.

The rear passenger window glided down without a sound.

Sitting in the dim leather interior was Maddox Vance.

He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders resting easily against the back seat. His sharp, angular face was carved in ruthless lines, and his cold, obsidian eyes locked onto mine with total, undivided focus. The man whose ruthless investments dominated half the sports industry, and the owner-captain of the Storm's deadliest rival franchise, tilted his head slightly.

"Dr. Hayes," Maddox said, his deep voice carrying a lethal, calm certainty. "My entire team is yours to manage now."