Ignite Me, Ice Captain

Not the Girl for Games

The address Logan Pierce had given her was in Medway, at a property on Holliston Street, right on the boundary between two rural towns. Fortunately, the morning traffic was light, allowing her to make good time and arrive at the house in under thirty minutes.

Patterned after most houses in the area, it sat on a generous expanse of green land, with a neatly manicured lawn surrounding the front, the remaining stretch at the back left to blend in with the wooded landscape. The house itself was a spacious two-story structure, containing about four to six bedrooms. Built in a ranch style, its slate-grey shiplap exterior added to its rustic charm, giving it a rural yet refined appeal.

The property wasn’t gated or fenced. Security likely came from large shepherd dogs, surveillance cameras, or muscular guards patrolling the premises whenever Pierce was home.

She turned onto the long driveway leading to the house and pulled into a decent parking spot among the sports cars and V8s scattered carelessly across the spacious lot. Whoever Pierce’s driver was, he was begging to be fired.

So far, no dog had appeared, barking threateningly, nor had any tough-looking security guard stepped out to question her presence. She climbed onto the patio and rang the doorbell.

From inside, music blasted at full volume.

Considering this was a house call to a male patient, she had wanted to bring Rose along, but a family emergency had kept her from coming to the hospital that morning. Still, she hadn’t been too concerned—Judge Blake lived in Medway, so plausibly the older woman stayed with her son. If not a permanent arrangement, at least, for the period he was home, in the recovery process. Hearing the sheer volume of the music, though, she began having doubts.

When no one answered, she rang the bell again, more insistently, assuming the music was drowning out the sound. Almost immediately, the door flung open.

It wasn’t Pierce at the door, but she knew she had the right address—she’d seen this guy on TV before and knew he was associated with the Blizzard Beasts. Pete Del Avis, if she remembered correctly.

‘Hey, guys, she’s here,’ he called over his shoulder.

She frowned. Who is the ‘she’?

Three more Blizzard Beasts crowded the doorway, leering at her. None of them bothered to ask why she was there.

“I’m looking for Logan Pierce,” she prompted when they continued staring at her like she’d just dropped in from outer space.

“Did Logan make the call? I thought he was sleeping off the painkillers,” Gabby Taylor asked the guy next to him.

He shrugged. “Who cares? Just let her in.”

They pulled the door open wider, inviting her inside.

She blinked, adjusting to the scene before her. Nearly every Blizzard Beast currently under contract with the hockey club was sprawled across the gleaming hardwood floor of the living room.

If the half-dressed men at the door had made her squirm, what lay before her was a full-on spectacle. Hard-muscled, sculpted bodies—some down to their boxers, all of them shirtless—lounged underneath the bright sunlight pouring in from the skylit ceiling and expansive windows lining the room.

And every single one of them was staring at her.

Excitement, curiosity, amusement—blatant interest was written all over their faces.

But Logan wasn’t among them.

She scanned the room, searching. Was he really in bed? His meds were for morning and night, and even the painkillers — which he could take as needed — weren’t strong enough to knock someone out with this much noise around. Besides, he knew she was coming. She’d texted him on the road. She pulled out her phone to check for a reply. Nothing.

“Can someone please let Mr. Pierce know I’m here? I’m his doctor.”

One of the men whistled low. “A doctor—in regular clothes. That’s gotta be hot.”

She could feel their eyes crawling over her, singeing her jeans and shirt off her like wrapped paper.

“What’s in the bag?” someone called out from the back.

“Medical supplies,” she threw back curtly.

“If there’s a stethoscope in there, come feel my heart. It’s pounding for you. When do we get the show? I can’t wait to watch you peel those clothes off.”

The pieces were starting to click together—and she didn’t like the picture forming.

“Mr. Pierce, please,” she said, her voice tightening, panic beginning to prickle her spine in the midst of half-naked, overgrown boys who looked like they’d love nothing more than to see her with even less.

“Alright, alright,” one of them laughed. “Somebody go get Pierce. It’s his party, after all. It’s only fair he gets the lap dance.”

She stayed near the door, ready to make a quick bolt if things took a turn for the worse, tensed until he heard the tapping of a cane from the upper floor.

Logan appeared at the top of the staircase — fully dressed, at least, in khaki capris and a black polo shirt, with no trace of sleep in his eyes.

The sight of him spurred her into action, and she made a dash for the staircase, but a barricade of men stood in her way.

“Hottie, we get it, he’s the jackpot, but before you go up to his room and let him f**k you, come play with us first.”

“Mr. Pierce,” she called, her eyes pleading with him to intervene.

He simply stood there, unconcerned.

“How much did you pay for her, Logan?” Gabby asked.

“Oh, she’s damn expensive. Either she proves she’s worth every cent, or you show her the door. And FYI — she’s the Dr. Avery Calloway.”

He said her name like he meant to spark a fire. And it worked. The smiles on the faces of those who’d ambushed her twisted cynically.

“Well done for bringing her, Logan. We’ll teach her a thing or two about the Beasts to pass on to her patients. Here’s the message, doc — we f**k hard. Hope you’re ready for it,” Pete Del-Avis sneered.

“Yeah, don’t worry, Pierce,” another chimed in. “We’ll make sure every one of your pennies counts.”

The barricade was closing in, their chant of 'take those clothes off' growing louder and far less playful. She inched backward toward the door, glaring at her patient over their heads. The audacity — he was turning around, walking away, leaving her to face a circling threat that clearly saw her as the rival.

“Logan!”

He stopped. Turned.

“What happened to Mr. Pierce? Does formality get shoved out the door when you’re about to get naked, Dr. Callaway? They won’t let you come up unless you’re walking in your birthday suit, so your choice.”

“I drove almost half an hour down here for you, and you’re sending me back without letting me do my job? Who do you think will come out the biggest loser? You could end up permanently disabled if you keep this up. You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.” He gave her that sideways smirk she was growing to despise so much.

The guy was too damn full of himself, betting everything on her loyalty to his mother to keep her around, panting in eagerness to nurse him back to health when he knew damn well he deserved to be left to rot.

Common sense screamed at her to leave before one of them got bold enough to grab her and flatten her to the floor. She had no idea just how stupidly daring they could get— if they’d actually risk a lawsuit. She could just turn around and let the asshole watch her walk away. But there was a stupid pride buried in her very core, adamantly refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her run out of there like a scared teenager.

She chalked her steadfastness to get to him partly to the small, worshipful spirit in her — the one too hesitant to disappoint the good judge — nudging her to ignore his inflated ego and help anyway. And beyond that, she was a doctor, wasn’t she? Every fiber of her professional being recoiled at the thought of turning her back on someone who might genuinely need care, dumb as he was to recognize he did.

Drat. She gritted her teeth.

She dropped her bag on the floor, nostrils flaring in frustration. With a speed that certainly didn’t flatter a stripper, she undid the buttons of her shirt and tossed the garment aside.

The chants had now turned to jubilant jeering.

“Go slow, hottie. What’s the hurry?”

She looked up at Logan. He watched on with a smirk, leaning on the rail.

She popped the button on her jeans and slowly unzipped them, her gaze fixed on his, her chin trusting obstinately into the air. If he didn’t stop her before the denim reached her knees, she’d put on a show he’d never forget with his teammates. She was mad enough not to give a damn how many c***s could be ramming her before they called it quits. Something told her the sight of another man doing anything with her would send him spiraling long before it ever broke her.

“Let her through, guys. On second thought, I want to deal with her myself,” he finally spoke up.

A loud, unanimous groan echoed through the room.