Chapter 7: The Media Spin Begins

  My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I stood backstage in the Tigers’ media briefing room the next morning. After last night’s tunnel nightmare, sleep had been an impossibility. Every time I had closed my eyes, I felt the crushing weight of Logan’s armored body pinning me against the concrete, his filthy, dominant promises echoing in my ears.

  “I’ll pump you so full of my cum you’ll be leaking for days.”

  I adjusted the high collar of my blouse in the green-room mirror, ensuring the fresh, dark bite mark on my neck was completely hidden. The youth hockey charity event was tomorrow, and today we had to stop the bleeding from that disastrous 5-2 loss. One more unhinged headline, one more violent outburst, and the league board would push for a lifetime ban.

  Potter Watts gave me a tired, heavy nod from across the room. “You’ve got the script locked down with him, Rhea?”

  I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Yes. I rehearsed the talking points with him this morning over video call. He… seemed cooperative.”

  The veteran coach snorted, adjusting his team tie. “Don’t count on it lasting. A predator stays a predator.”

  The media room was suffocatingly packed when we walked out. Reporters, flashes, and broadcast microphones bristled like weapons beneath the studio lighting. Logan entered a step behind me, towering in a bespoke black suit that did absolutely nothing to hide the lethal, athletic power beneath the fabric. His ink-black hair was perfectly styled for once, but those cold, storm-grey eyes locked onto me the second he crossed the threshold.

  He leaned down slightly as we approached the press table, his breath hot and deliberate against the shell of my ear. “You look terrified, mouse. Good. Keeps that pretty little stutter ready for me later.”

  I forced myself to breathe, staring straight ahead. This was my job. This was the corporate retainer that would finally clear my family's debt.

  Logan took his seat at the center of the long panel. I stood half a step behind him, tucked into the wings off to the side, ready to intercept the microphone if he began to unravel. The cameras flashed relentlessly, reflecting off the polished wood of the dais.

  A reporter from the Tribune intercepted the floor immediately. “Logan, after last night’s performance—allowing five goals total, including three soft ones in the first two periods—can you address the growing concerns that your steroid suspension has permanently derailed your tracking and reaction time?”

  Logan’s jaw flexed, a dangerous pulse ticking in his cheek. For a split second, I thought he was going to launch himself over the microphone. Then his eyes flicked sideways, finding me. I gave him the tiniest, sharpest nod. Stick to the script.

  He leaned forward, his voice low, gravelly, and perfectly controlled. “The suspension was the result of a mismanaged medical recovery program. I trusted the wrong people with my post-injury rehabilitation. That’s a failure on my part. I’m working with certified independent specialists now, and my sole focus is getting back to the elite level this franchise and these fans deserve.”

  The room murmured, pens scratching quickly against notebooks. He was actually delivering the lines.

  Another reporter raised a hand. “There are still heavy factions of the fanbase calling for an immediate trade or an outright league ban. How do you respond to the sentiment that you're a liability to the Tigers' culture?”

  “I understand the frustration,” Logan said, his tone adopting a calculated, almost human layer of humility that we had practiced. “I’ve made mistakes. Off-ice issues, poor decisions. But accountability starts with actions, not just press statements. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the metro youth hockey drive, personally donating gear and spending time on the ice with the kids who look up to this program.”

  I blinked, watching the monitors. He was playing the media like a violin. The subtle softening of his stance, the rehearsed pause before mentioning the children—it was working perfectly.

  Then, a veteran sports columnist leaned toward his mic. “And the woman standing just behind your left shoulder? Rumors are circulating about a newly appointed crisis handler on your personal payroll. Is she the architect behind this sudden image rehabilitation?”

  Logan’s eyes slid slowly to mine, a dark, incredibly possessive smile touching the corners of his lips.

  “She’s helping clean up the mess I made,” he said smoothly, his baritone vibrating through the room. “And she is… exceptionally dedicated to her work.”

  The deliberate weight he placed on the word dedicated made a fierce, burning heat crawl straight up my neck. Under the long table, completely hidden from the view of the gallery and the broadcasting cameras, Logan reached back. His massive, heavy hand gripped my thigh through my skirt, his blunt fingers digging deep into my flesh with bruising force.

  I stayed completely frozen, my breath catching in my throat as the press conference continued. Logan answered question after question, staying so close to the narrative blueprint I had designed that the media bias began shifting in real time. From violent, disgraced abuser to tortured superstar battling his inner demons. It wasn’t a full redemption, but it was a crack in the armor. A win.

  When the moderator finally called time, the press corps seemed cautiously optimistic.

  The moment the final camera crew powered down, Logan stood up, his large hand instantly locking around my wrist. He pulled me briskly through the heavy double doors and into a secluded service hallway away from the locker rooms.

  “You did good, mouse,” he murmured, crowding my space until my back hit the drywall. His massive frame caged me in completely, cutting off the exit. “You’re ideas are a perfect magic.”

  His calloused hand slid slowly up my thigh, going underneath the hem of my skirt this time, his fingertips brushing the bare skin dangerously high.

  “But don’t get it twisted,” he continued, his voice dropping into that dark, lethal growl that made my chest tighten. “I only played nice today because I want that charity event tomorrow to look immaculate. When I’m surrounded by those kids and those cameras, you’re going to be standing right beside me. Smiling. Obedient. Mine.”

  He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below my ear. “And tonight? You’re coming straight back to my penthouse after the final logistics meeting. I want that tight little body cooking for me again… completely naked this time.”

  I trembled against the wall, my hands bunching into his suit jacket. “Logan, please… we have a contract—”

  He cut me off entirely, his mouth slamming down onto mine in a bruising, possessive kiss. His tongue claimed my mouth with a raw, dominant hunger, taking everything until I was lightheaded. When he finally pulled back, his grey eyes were dark with absolute victory.

  “Public perception belongs to you, Rhea,” he whispered, his thumb stroking over my swollen bottom lip. “But remember who you belong to. Not the league. Not the fans. Me.”

  He released me abruptly and walked away down the corridor, his broad shoulders filling the hallway. I stood there alone, leaning against the cold wall, my legs shaking violently as the terrifying truth settled in.

  The better I made him look to the world, the more secure his trap became.