Chapter 12: Trey’s Intervention

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 I felt absolutely none of it. I was drowning in plain sight.

I slipped into the team kitchen area during a brief break between media strategy meetings, desperate for a single moment of quiet and a hot cup of coffee. My hands were shaking so violently the ceramic rattled as I reached into the upper cabinet for a mug.

“Rhea.”

I startled so badly the mug nearly slipped from my fingers. Trey stood in the doorway—the friendly, warm-natured winger who had always been genuinely kind to me since my first day on the payroll. He was tall, athletic, and possessed soft brown eyes that currently held a deep, unblinking concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, stepping inside the lounge and closing the door behind him to block out the noise of the hallway. “You’ve been… different lately. Completely checked out. And those marks on your neck…”

I instinctively reached up, tugging my silk collar higher, a fierce, burning heat flooding my face. “It’s nothing, Trey. Just a minor skin reaction. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Trey moved a step closer, though he kept a highly respectful, cautious distance. “I’ve seen the way McAllister looks at you in the tunnels. The way he corners you after the media briefings. The way you flinch into the wall the second he walks into a room. This isn’t normal PR handling, Rhea. He’s dangerous. What he’s doing to you… it isn’t right.”

My throat tightened painfully. For one incredibly weak, desperate second, the sheer concept of someone actually showing genuine care toward me felt like oxygen to a dying fire.

“Trey, you don’t understand,” I whispered, my internal panic causing my stutter to creep into my voice. “The contract… it’s only for a short period. I need this job. I need the compensation. If I say anything to management—”

“I’ll go to Potter myself,” he said firmly, his jaw setting. “Or straight to the league compliance officials. Hell, I’ll call the Players’ Association. No one should have to endure this kind of workplace abuse. You’re terrified every single hour. I see it. Let me help you, Rhea.”

A wave of overwhelming emotion hit me, tears prickling behind my eyelids. Trey was genuinely good—one of the few untainted bright spots left in this toxic organization. For a fleeting second, a fragile warmth flickered in my chest.

“I… I don’t know if we can—”

The heavy wooden door slammed open with enough violent force to rattle the glass mugs inside the cabinets.

Logan stood in the frame, filling the entire doorway like a demon summoned by my exact moment of weakness. His slate-grey eyes flicked between me and Trey, his pupils dilating as his expression narrowed into a look of pure, murderous rage.

“What the fuck is this?” he snarled, his baritone voice dropping into a deadly, guttural register.

Trey didn't back down. He stepped forward, intentionally placing his body between me and the goalie. “McAllister, back the fuck off. She doesn’t need your bullshit right now.”

Logan moved like lightning.

His massive, calloused hands shot forward, gripping the front of Trey’s athletic shirt and hurling him out into the corridor with terrifying, effortless strength. I bolted out after them, my heart hammering against my ribs, as Logan dragged the smaller winger down the side corridor, entirely away from prying eyes.

“Logan, stop!” I cried out, my heels clicking frantically against the concrete floor as I ran after them. “Don’t!”

He didn’t even glance back.

In the empty, dim side hallway near the equipment storage room, Logan slammed Trey’s back against the solid concrete wall. The sound of the impact was sickening. Before Trey could even recover his breath, Logan drove his fist directly into the winger's ribs with brutal, professional force—once, twice, three times. The distinct, muffled crack of bone was audible in the quiet corridor.

Trey gasped out in pure agony, doubling over instantly as the air left his lungs. Logan didn’t let him fall to the ground. He ruthlessly held him up by his collar, pinning him to the wall, and delivered one final, vicious punch to the side of his jaw.

“You think you can touch what’s mine?” Logan growled, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated venom. “You think you can offer to ‘save’ her from me? She belongs to me, you worthless fuck. Her fear. Her body. Her fucking soul. You go near her again, and I’ll break more than your ribs.”

Trey wheezed violently, clutching his fractured side as blood trickled from his split lip. “You’re… fucking psychotic.”

Logan smiled. It was a cold, feral, terrifying expression. “And you’re incredibly lucky I need this roster intact to make the playoffs. Otherwise, I’d put you in the ICU for a month.”

He released his grip, dropping Trey carelessly to the floorboards. The winger curled into a ball on the concrete, his breathing shallow, ragged, and deeply pained.

I stood frozen several feet away, tears streaming freely down my face, my hands trembling against my skirt. “Logan… please. He was just trying to be kind.”

Logan turned his gaze on me, his grey eyes wild and dark. He lunged forward, grabbing my upper arm and yanking my smaller body flush against his chest. His grip was fiercely bruising. “Kind? There is no kindness for you here, mouse. You’re mine. The sooner you and every other prick on this team understands that, the better.”

He looked down at Trey, who was struggling to draw air into his lungs. “Tell anyone what happened in this hallway, and I’ll personally ensure your career is terminated. I’m single-handedly carrying this franchise right now. Potter won’t touch me. The front office won’t touch me. Not while I’m playing like a fucking god.”

The sound of approaching footsteps and security radios finally echoed from the end of the hall, drawn by the commotion. Logan released his bruising grip on my arm and stepped back, smoothly composing his features into something resembling calm.

“He fell,” Logan told the arriving security chief flatly, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “Slipped on some ice water near the equipment cart. Tough break for the roster.”

No one questioned him. Not a single person. Trey was carefully helped off the floor by the medical staff, clutching his shattered ribs in agony. The team doctor would inevitably confirm the injury, but Logan would face absolutely zero administrative consequences. His performance on the ice was simply too valuable to the franchise's bottom line. The entire wildcard push depended on his gloves.

Later that evening, back in the suffocating luxury of Logan’s penthouse, he forced me to sit across his lap while he slowly stroked his fingers through my hair as if I were a captured pet.

“You see what happens when people try to interfere with my property?” he murmured against my temple, his breath warm and terrifyingly calm. “Trey will be on the injured reserve list for weeks. And you… you’re going to finally learn that fighting my ownership only results in other people getting broken.”

His hand slid down from my hair, moving over my blouse to rest possessively over my lower stomach, pressing his palm flat against me.

“No one is coming to save you, Rhea. Not Trey. Not that coward ex of yours. Not even yourself. You’re in my crease now, mouse. And I protect what’s mine with absolute violence.”

I sat there completely numb, the staggering weight of his obsession crushing the remaining air from my chest. The team was winning. The city was cheering. But behind locked doors, I was losing absolutely everything.