The Pucking Ice King

Chapter 6: The First Game & Public Eyes

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 c**k, 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 pockets of the arena cheered for the hometown superstar, but the boos drowned them out entirely. His reputation had poisoned the franchise. Steroid scandals, arrests, drunk-and-disorderly destruction—the fans wanted blood tonight, either from the opposing team or from Logan himself.

From the moment the puck dropped, it was obvious something was deeply wrong.

Logan looked unhinged in the crease. His massive six-foot-five frame, usually so dominant and mathematically precise, moved with a chaotic, barely contained rage. The Chicago Vipers came out aggressive, crashing his crease early and often. Marcus Vance, their star forward and Logan’s personal nemesis, was particularly vicious—chirping him nonstop after the whistles, sliding his steel skates into Logan’s blue paint, trying to knock him off his center.

Logan let in the first goal just six minutes into the opening period. It was a soft wrister through the five-hole that should have been an easy glove save, but his timing was completely off. The arena erupted in groans and immediate jeers. I watched his stats update in real time on the digital monitor beside me: a .812 SV% and a 4.35 GAA. Disastrous numbers for a franchise goalie.

By the end of the first period, it only got worse.

He was fighting the puck instead of reading the ice. Every rebound bounced off his chest protector awkwardly. When a Viper defenseman screened him on a point shot, Logan flailed, and the puck slipped past his blocker side. Another goal. The crowd was turning ugly now, chanting the name of the backup goalie.

In the second period, Logan completely unraveled. Vance skated in on a clean breakaway, deked left, then flipped a backhand toward the roof. Logan committed too early, biting on the fake. The puck sailed over his shoulder and tucked beneath the crossbar. By the final buzzer, the scoreboard read a humiliating 5-2 home loss.

The media was going to crucify him. My phone exploded with notifications from the upper-management PR team: Damage control. Spin this NOW. Get him to say the right things.

As if anyone could control the monster I’d been chained to.

I made my way down to the private players’ tunnel, my legs shaking under my skirt. The concrete corridor beneath the arena was dimly lit, damp, and echoey. I was supposed to coordinate the post-game mixed-zone media, but the second I stepped into the hallway, heavy, metal-tipped footsteps stormed toward me.

Logan came barreling out of the locker room tunnel still in full gear—his sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his massive chest, his heavy pads making him look twice as wide and terrifyingly imposing. His matte-black mask was pushed up on his forehead, revealing wild grey eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury.

“You,” he snarled, his voice a guttural rasp.

I didn’t even have time to retreat. He grabbed my upper arm with his heavy, leather-padded glove and slammed me backward against the cold concrete wall. The sheer bulk of his hockey gear crushed against my smaller body, the rigid plastic of his chest protector digging directly into my chest. The suffocating scent of sweat, shaved ice, and raw masculine fury overwhelmed my senses.

“This is your fault,” he growled, his voice low, vicious, and echoing off the concrete. One massive, gloved hand slammed against the wall right beside my ear while the other gripped my waist hard enough to leave new marks. “You and your constant little mouse presence. Distracting me. Staring at me from the glass like you’re waiting for me to snap.”

His hips pressed forward, crowding me completely, grinding the hard, rigid bulge of his athletic cup directly against my stomach. Even through the layers of padding, the deliberate intent of his weight was terrifyingly clear. The adrenaline from the game had left him entirely feral.

“I—I was in the press box the whole time,” I whispered, my stutter exploding under the crushing physical pressure. “I d-didn’t—”

“Shut the f**k up.” His hand moved from my waist to my throat, wrapping around my neck possessively. He squeezed just enough to restrict my breath, making my pulse race frantically against his calloused palms. “Three f*****g goals I should’ve stopped with my eyes closed. Because all I could picture in the crease was your pretty lips wrapped around me while you stuttered my name. I own you, Rhea. And right now, I want to destroy something. Either the next team… or you.”

Tears stung my eyes, blurring the wild expression on his face. The cold concrete bit into my spine while his suffocating heat burned into my front.

“Fix it,” he demanded, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “Fix my head before the next game, or I’ll make good on every threat I've made. I’ll drag you back to my penthouse, tie you to my bed, and f**k you raw for hours. I’ll pump you so full of my c*m you’ll be leaking for days. You’ll carry my baby before you ever get to leave me.”

His free hand slid down, roughly palming my breast through my blouse, pinching my n****e through the fabric hard enough to make me gasp for air.

“Feel that?” He ground his hips against me again, slower this time—a deliberate, heavy friction. “That’s what you do to me. Even after playing like garbage, I’m rock hard for my scared little prey. You’re in my crease now, mouse. On the ice and off it. And I am going to destroy every piece of you.”

He leaned in and bit my lower lip sharply, then sucked it into his mouth, claiming my mouth right there in the open tunnel where any security guard or executive could walk by. The kiss was brutal, possessive, and suffocating—all teeth, heat, and absolute dominance.

When he finally pulled back, his grey eyes were dark, his chest heaving against mine.

“Get your s**t together, Rhea. Next game, I want a shutout. And if I don’t get one…” His thumb stroked roughly over my racing pulse point. “I’ll take it out on this tight little body until you’re begging me to stop. Or begging me for more. Either way, you’re mine.”

He released my throat so suddenly I nearly collapsed onto the floorboards, my knees trembling violently beneath my trench coat.

Logan turned on his heel and stormed off toward the inner locker room without looking back, leaving me alone in the cold, echoing tunnel, my heart pounding and my body aching with fear and a dizzying, unwanted heat.

This wasn’t public relations anymore. This was a nightmare I couldn’t escape.