The Pucking Ice King

Chapter 11: The Locker Room Mark

The Tigers’ arena was still buzzing with the static electricity of victory.

Logan had delivered an absolute masterclass in net. A complete, unblemished shutout against a fierce divisional rival—thirty-eight saves, a perfect 1.000 SV%, and a commanding, lethal presence that entirely silenced the opposing team’s offense. By the final buzzer, the hometown crowd had been chanting his name like a war cry. The exact same fans who had booed him weeks ago were now screaming his name until the rafters shook. His season stats were climbing back into MVP territory, and the wildcard spot felt closer than ever.

I watched from the glass front of the press box as he skated off the ice, his helmet tucked under his arm, his ink-black hair slick with sweat. Those cold grey eyes scanned the upper tiers until they found me, holding my gaze for one long, deliberate second before he offered a sharp wink. Even from that distance, the sheer possessiveness in his look made my stomach twist into knots.

The team was in full celebration mode when I was called down to the locker room corridor with the updated media distribution schedule for the upcoming week. Potter Watts had specifically requested that I deliver the binders personally. I knew better than to argue with the head coach.

The hallway outside the locker room smelled of sweat, melted ice, and victory. Deep laughter and booming voices echoed loudly through the heavy doors. I kept my chin tucked, clutching the folder against my chest, hoping to drop off the documents quickly and escape before the players filed out.

I never made it past the threshold.

Two massive, taped hands grabbed my upper arms from behind and hauled me backward into the private trainer’s room just off the main hallway. The heavy door clicked shut and the deadbolt turned, locking with a definitive thud before I could even draw breath to protest.

Logan.

He was still in his compression undershirt and heavy hockey pants, his torso pads discarded, his massive body radiating a suffocating heat and raw power. The room was dimly lit, smelling sharply of wintergreen ointment, antiseptic, and his distinct cologne.

“You did good tonight, mouse,” he growled, caging me instantly against the padded vinyl of the examination table. “Got that shutout because I finally had something worth protecting out there. You.”

“Logan, the entire team is right outside—” I started, my voice already fracturing into a familiar tremble.

“I don’t give a f**k who's outside.” His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my throat just tight enough to restrict my breath, making my pulse race frantically against his palm. “I need to make them understand that you’re completely off-limits. Every single one of them.”

With one violent, downward tug of his free hand, he ripped open the top three buttons of my silk blouse, exposing my neck and collarbone to the chilly air of the room. His mouth descended immediately—hot, wet, and utterly merciless. He sucked hard on the sensitive skin just below my jawline, then bit down lower, dragging his teeth across my collarbone until I knew dark, angry marks were blooming against my skin.

I whimpered, my hands coming up to push at his massive shoulders, but he was an immovable wall of muscle. One thick, heavily padded thigh shoved aggressively between my knees, pressing up hard against my core as he continued marking me like an animal claiming territory.

“These are going to be completely visible tomorrow,” he murmured against my skin, his gravelly voice dripping with satisfaction. “Your high-collared shirts won’t hide all of them, mouse. I want Trey and Steak and every other asshole on this roster to see my marks on your skin and know exactly who you belong to.”

His hands roamed lower, catching the hem of my pencil skirt and shoving it up around my waist. He palmed my bare backside roughly, his blunt fingers digging in before he yanked my panties unceremoniously to the side. Two thick fingers pushed inside me without a single word of warning, curling deep against my core.

“Already wet for me,” he groaned against my neck. “Even after I f****d you raw this morning. Your body is completely addicted to me now, isn’t it?”

“Someone… someone could walk in,” I gasped out, my stutter flaring badly under the physical rush. “The c-coaches—”

“Let them.” He pumped his fingers harder, his thumb finding my c**t and circling it with a ruthless, rhythmic precision that made my head fall back against his shoulder. “Let them see me finger-f*****g my property in the trainer’s room. Maybe then they’ll finally get the message.”

He added a third finger, stretching me open, while his teeth continued their brutal assault on my neck and collarbone—sucking, biting, leaving a trail of dark hickeys and distinct teeth marks that would be impossible to cover.

I came embarrassingly fast, biting down on my own lip to stifle the cry as a catastrophic wave of pleasure crashed through me against my will. My legs trembled so violently they could barely support my weight.

Logan didn’t give me a second to recover. He pulled his fingers free, spun my body around, and bent me face-down over the vinyl examination table. I heard the sharp rustle of his hockey pants being shoved down, and then the thick, heavy head of his c**k was pushing into my wetness in one brutal, unyielding thrust.

“f**k—yes,” he hissed, bottoming out entirely inside me, his chest slamming against my back. “This p***y clenches so perfectly when you’re scared of getting caught. Take it, mouse. Take every single inch while I mark what’s mine.”

He f****d me hard, fast, and deep, one hand fisted securely in my honey-brown hair to hold my head down, the other gripping my hip hard enough to guarantee bruises. The rhythmic, echoing sound of skin slapping skin filled the small trainer's room, terrifyingly loud against the muffled backdrop of the team celebrating just down the hall.

“You’re going to wear these marks proudly,” he grunted between heavy, punishing thrusts. “Every time you run a press conference, every time you talk to my teammates, they’ll see what I did to you. And they’ll know that if they even look at you too long, I’ll break their f*****g legs on the ice.”

His pace grew frantic, entirely feral. He reached around his massive frame, his fingers rubbing my c**t again, forcing another unwanted, shattering orgasm out of my body just as he buried himself to the hilt. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body tensing completely as he flooded me with the hot, pulsing shocks of his release.

When he finally pulled out, he turned my limp body around and kissed me possessively, sucking one final, stinging mark onto my bottom lip.

“Get yourself together,” he said, tucking himself back into his compression pants without a hint of shame. “But don’t you dare try to cover all of them tomorrow. I want them visible.”

I stood there trembling against the examination table, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely align the remaining buttons of my ruined blouse. My neck and collarbone were covered in fresh, angry purple welts and bite marks. There was no way a high collar would hide the sheer volume of his wreckage.

Logan smirked as he watched me struggle, those slate-grey eyes glowing with absolute satisfaction.

“Good girl. Now go do your little PR job. And remember—you’re mine. In public. In private. Everywhere.”

He unlocked the deadbolt and left the room without looking back, leaving me flushed, marked, and trembling as his c*m slowly leaked down the inside of my thighs.

I had no choice but to smooth down my skirt, fix my hair, and walk back out into the bright lights of the hallway like nothing had happened. The team’s raucous celebration was still spilling into the corridor, but as I walked past the locker room doors, I caught several curious glances from the players—especially from Trey, whose eyes lingered on the fresh, dark marks on my neck a second too long before he quickly looked away in discomfort.