The marks were completely impossible to hide.
Even with my highest-collared silk blouse and a thick layer of heavy coverage makeup, the dark purple welts and distinct teeth marks Logan had left on my neck and collarbone were visible to anyone who looked too closely. I moved through the Tigers’ training facilities like a ghost—physically exhausted, aching in every joint, and constantly aware of the sticky, drying reminder of his fluid between my thighs from our encounter in the trainer’s room.
On the ice, the Tigers were on an absolute tear. Logan’s performance in net had been nothing short of terrifyingly dominant. Another shutout in our last game had officially pushed the franchise into serious wildcard contention. The entire locker room was buzzing with a desperate, electric hope, but
