Chapter Two – The Predator Signs His Prey
966 Words
(Logan’s POV)
Three months earlier…
I was exactly where I wanted to be. I glanced at the contract, and then back at Damien, who was staring me down. I leaned back in my chair, tapping the pen against my knee and watched contentedly as Damien and two of his players (probably his closest men) twitched uncomfortably.
I was taking my sweet time to sign the contract, and they didn’t know what to do with me, the star player who was too arrogant to fit in. But I wasn't here to make friends.
I was here to carve a wound. My signature slid across the last page, and I leaned back with a smile. “Welcome to the Chicago Phantoms, Mr. Cross,” one of the executives said.
Damian Blackwell towered a few inches above me, and he controlled the way other men wore clothes, and I was here to take revenge and ruin him. The press conference was a circus, and my cameras flashed, reporters shouted, and I sat at the table in a fresh jersey, with number twenty-seven blazing across my chest.
“Logan, you’ve had offers from multiple franchises, so why the Phantoms?” a reporter barked.
I leaned into the mic with a lazy grin. “Because it’s fun working for a boss who actually knows how to lose gracefully, I’m sure we all watched the last game.” There were a few people who laughed and others who snorted. Damien’s jaw ticked, and it was subtle and I caught it. He stayed seated, but his hands were folded like a king on a throne, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead.
Perfect. A reporter shouted, “Are you implying you’re here to teach the Phantoms how to win.”
I laughed, “Guess you’ll have to watch the season to find out.”
The room buzzed like a hive. That jab had landed. I wanted him rattled. I wanted to peel back that mask of control he worshipped. Three years ago, when I stood in front of two caskets, my parents, who died because of him, because of this business, and the politics of this city, I promised to take revenge. Everyone said they’d gotten into an accident and died, but I know it wasn't just any vehicle that had hit them that day. It was Damien's father's.
The man behind it died before I could touch him. So I settled for the next best thing. His heir. His son. Damian Blackwell.
******
“Cross,” Damien called out, his hands in his pants.
Practice that afternoon had been vigorous. I skated like I owned the rink, ignoring every barked order from the sidelines. I cracked jokes in the locker room, and tossed barbs that made the guys laugh and Damian scowl. And it felt good.
But the best part came after. I’d just peeled off my pads, sweat slick down my neck, when I felt him before I saw him. I turned, Damian stood there, blocking the exit, his broad shoulders stopped me from sidestepping him.
“Did you enjoy your little performance today?”
I tossed my bag over my shoulder and did my best not to roll my eyes. “ The crowd loved it, and you should thank me.”
Damien stepped so close that I could smell his musky cologne. “Do you think being arrogant and blatantly disrespectful is a game?”
“Everything’s a game,” I said softly, leaning in just a fraction. “The trick is knowing who’s already losing.”
I did not expect what came next. His hand shot out, fisting my jersey, and slamming me back against the concrete wall. My heart skipped a beat but not because I was scared. No. It skipped a beat because I was suddenly all too aware of his hand on my chest and his crotch pressed against my pelvis. He was breathing down my cheek and for a split second, I thought he might kiss me.
And God help me, I didn't hate the thought.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with. Do you do this to annoy me?” He grounded out.
I held his stormy brown eyes, smiling because I knew it would infuriate him. But I could not forget the memory of my family being wiped out by that accident. My parents were dead because of men like him. Because of his family. I wasn’t just here to play hockey. I was here to dismantle his empire, one goal, one press headline, at a time.
“Don’t flatter yourself Damien. I am playing for you, but we don;t have to be cordial.” I replied, dropping my voice to a whisper.
His hold on my chest tightened, and he bared his teeth. “Then don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’ll be here for a year more, and you have to fix that rotten attitude of yours.”
And I pressed the knife in deeper. “You need me, Blackwell, and honestly, you knew exactly what my attitude is like before you hired me.” I said, my lips brushing dangerously close to his ear. “That’s what makes this fun.”
His nostrils flared and for one dizzying heartbeat, I thought he’d snap, or shove me harder, or kiss me…or both. Instead, he released me like I was poison. His control snapped back into place, but I’d seen him crack. And it was going to be my favorite weapon.
I shouldered past him, brushing him purposely. “Stay out of my way, Mr Blackwell, and we’ll get along just fine.” The air went razor-sharp.
And Damian Blackwell, the man who thought control made him untouchable, finally looked like he was about to break.
- Writer
