Page 13

CHAPTER 11

LOGAN

W arm-ups were supposed to be routine—stretch, skate, shoot, get loose.

Miller…was making them look incredibly difficult. He was barely moving, his face gray and sweaty under his helmet. Every stride looked like it was taking everything he had, and he leaned over and gagged at one point.

It was delightful.

I skated past him, grinning behind my mouthguard. Seeing him like this—sick, weak, floundering—it was better than I’d imagined. The bartender had done good work. It was too bad she couldn’t see him like this, it would be poetic justice for her.

Tampa’s head coach, a barrel-chested guy with a voice like a foghorn, was already on the bench, barking orders. “Miller! You gonna fucking skate, or are you just here to take up space?”

Tyler barely lifted his head, his stick dragging behind him as he shuffled to the boards. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though it was obvious to everyone in the arena with eyes that he wasn’t.

“Bullshit,” the coach snapped. “You look like you’re about to keel over. What the fuck did you do?”

I chuckled under my breath, circling back to grab a puck. Miller shot me a glare, his eyes bloodshot and watery, like he was barely holding it together. He opened his mouth to say something, but his coach cut him off.

“Move your ass, Miller! We don’t have time for this shit!”

Miller turned, his shoulders hunched like a scolded schoolboy, and skated off toward the far end of the rink. If he was trying to prove he was ready to play, he wasn’t doing a great job.

Satisfied, I glanced toward the stands, where the real reason for my focus—or distraction—was sitting. Sloane. She stood out like a diamond in a gravel pit, her sleek outfit and perfect posture screaming sophistication in the sea of jerseys and hats. She wasn’t paying attention to Tyler’s pathetic performance or even the ice. Instead, she was on a call, her pretty face looking distressed.

And then I saw it.

The moment she figured it out.

Her face went pale, her lips parting slightly. She looked up, her eyes scanning the ice like she was searching for something—or someone.

When her gaze locked on me, I knew. She wasn’t guessing anymore. She knew.

She knew I’d hired her.

My heart pounded, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I tilted my head just slightly, giving her a look that I hoped conveyed exactly what I was thinking. Yeah, I hired you. And yeah, I’m not sorry, baby. It’s all going to work out .

Her face froze, and I could see the storm brewing behind her eyes, even from a distance. She turned back to her phone, gripping it tightly as though it might offer her some kind of escape.

Good luck with that, sweetheart.

The sound of Tampa’s coach screaming snapped me out of my trance. Tyler was wobbling again, missing an easy pass and almost taking out one of his teammates in the process.

“For fuck’s sake, Miller! Get off the damn ice!” the coach bellowed.

Tyler skated off, his helmet tilted awkwardly as he slumped onto the bench. The guys around him didn’t even try to hide their disgust, scooting away like he was contagious.

I skated past the boards, my smirk firmly back in place. Warm-ups hadn’t even finished, and I was already winning. And if the drug test results came back the way I expected? This was the last time I’d be playing Tyler this season.

The best part? Sloane was free now—or at least, she was free for me.

And she’d figure that out soon enough.

* * *

The second Miller’s stick came down on my kneecap, I knew I was in trouble. Pain shot through my leg, hot and immediate, and I crumpled to the ice, clutching my knee. The roar of the crowd faded into the background as I gritted my teeth, trying to push through it, trying to get up. But the stabbing pain wasn’t going anywhere.

He had sucked up enough energy to come after me the entire game. But a slash to the knee? That was low, even for him.

“If you get lost out there, ref, just follow the sound of everyone booing,” Ari growled as he made it to me. There were a few whistles, but I couldn’t muster past the pain to see what was happening to Tyler.

Ari helped pull me up, and then I limped my way to the bench, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the trainer worked on getting me patched up.

“You’re out for now,” the trainer said, shaking his head. “I’ll see how it looks after this period.”

I cursed under my breath, slamming my hand on the boards in frustration. This was Game Three. I had fucking plans.

And if I couldn’t fucking perform for Sloane later…Miller was going to be a dead man.

I glanced over to where Sloane was sitting and caught just a glimpse of her concerned face as she peeked at me before she quickly whipped her head around the moment she saw me looking.

If that wasn’t a sign she was about to be in love with me—I didn’t know what was.

Miller chose that moment to skate by with that stupid grin on his face, like he’d just won something. It made my blood boil, but there wasn’t much I could do except sit there, seething, as the game went on without me.

“You okay, Rookie?” Lincoln asked as he skated by the bench.

I nodded glumly, trying to look tough despite the fact that it felt like Tyler Fucking Miller had tried to remove my kneecap.

Lincoln nodded, but there was a scary energy about him that made me glad for the millionth time he was on my team. I watched from the bench as he zeroed in on Miller, his eyes locked on him like a predator about to strike. And when he did, it wasn’t subtle. Lincoln came at Miller full force, driving him into the glass right by our bench, so hard that the boards rattled, the entire arena going silent for a moment.

Miller’s body crumpled against the boards, his stick clattering to the ice, and I could see the pain etched on his face as Lincoln held him there for a beat longer than necessary. The refs were already blowing their whistles, but Lincoln leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t touch my rookie again.”

Miller didn’t even respond, his body limp as the trainers came to haul him off the ice. He wasn’t going to be playing what was hopefully his last game after all.

It was incredibly satisfying.

I avoided Ari’s eyes when he skated by. “Simppppp,” he singsonged, and I scoffed, because Walker was probably over there nutting in his pants right now at the display Lincoln had just put on. Why wasn’t he getting crap?

But also…yes, I was possibly Lincoln’s simp, as well.

We’d talk about that at another time.

Lincoln got sent straight to the penalty box after smashing Miller into the glass. I watched him skate off, his face hard as stone, not a single ounce of regret in his eyes. He wasn’t getting tossed from the game, though—probably because even the refs knew Tyler had it coming. A slash to the kneecap wasn’t exactly something they were going to let slide.

Lincoln dropped onto the bench in the box, glaring out at the ice like a caged animal. I could still feel the throbbing in my knee, the ache spreading through my leg, but seeing Miller get taken off the ice made it sting a little less.

When the penalty clock finally started ticking down, Lincoln looked over at me from the box, a small nod in my direction. No words, but I understood. He’d handled it.

And when I could get back in the game, I’d handle business too.

* * *

I couldn’t play for the rest of the game thanks to my swollen knee, but the good news was the team doc didn’t think I’d be out for Game Four.

Even though we lost…there was a small amount of solace after the game.

Miller’s drug test had come back positive, and NHL officials had swooped in. The arena was buzzing with the news—Tyler Miller had been hit with a twenty-game suspension, without pay, for performance-enhancing drugs.

I was now standing at Sloane’s hotel room door, holding a bouquet of flowers, my knee wrapped, and hoping that the news about Miller would soften the complicated feelings she might be having.

Sloane and I started now .