Chapter 9: The Away Game Hotel

  The youth hockey charity drive was supposed to be a safe, public sanctuary. Bright studio lights, smiling children, and eager photo opportunities—it was a perfectly controlled environment where Logan McAllister could play the reformed superstar for the local sports networks.

  It started well enough.

  Dozens of kids from local elementary schools crowded the practice rink at the Tigers’ training facility, their tiny skates wobbling on the ice as they clutched brand-new sticks and jerseys donated by the franchise. I stood off to the side in a professional cream blouse and a tailored black pencil skirt, clipboard in hand, directing photographers and ensuring Logan hit every talking point I’d meticulously prepared.

  He looked almost… approachable. Tall and imposing in his team-issued Tigers warm-up gear, his ink-black hair slightly tousled, he knelt down on the ice to help a small boy adjust his helmet strap. The cameras ate it up. For once, his cold, storm-grey eyes weren’t blazing with unhinged rage—they were focused, calculated, and perfectly disciplined. He even offered a rare, practiced smile for the local news anchors.

  But I felt his gaze on me constantly. Every time I adjusted my posture or guided a reporter, those grey eyes tracked my movements like an apex predator charting prey.

  During a brief intermission between skating drills, he cornered me behind the high plexiglass boards while the children were ushered to the bench for snacks.

  “You’re doing good, mouse,” he murmured, crowding his heavy frame against me, backing my spine directly into the cold plexiglass. One massive hand rested possessively on the curve of my hip, completely hidden from the view of the crowd by his broad shoulders. “All these happy little shits think I’m some kind of saint now. Thanks to you.”

  His blunt fingers dug into my flesh through my skirt. “But don’t forget who you really answer to when the cameras shut off. After this, we’re boarding the team charter for the away series. And I’ve made some… personal arrangements for our stay.”

  Before I could demand to know what he meant, a little girl tugged on the hem of his jersey, asking for an autograph. Logan flashed that flawless, fabricated charm, kneeling to sign her stick, but not before delivering a sharp, warning squeeze to my backside.

  The event wrapped up as a massive PR victory. By that evening, the sports blogs were already trending positively: McAllister Gives Back to Metro Youth Amid Comeback Season. My professional strategy was paying off. But the victory felt entirely hollow, knowing the exact caliber of monster I was polishing for public consumption.

  Two days later, we were boarded on the team’s private charter flight heading to Chicago for a brutal three-game away series against the Vipers. I tried desperately to maintain my boundaries, taking a seat in the back rows near the support staff section. Logan, of course, completely dismantled those plans. He ruthlessly forced one of the team trainers to switch seats with him, spending the entire flight sitting directly across the aisle from me, staring with those unblinking grey eyes while his teammates joked around him.

  By the time we landed and arrived via team bus at the luxury downtown hotel, an exhausting weight pressed down on my chest. I wanted nothing more than a quiet room, a hot shower, and a few hours of sanctuary away from Logan’s suffocating aura.

  That hope shattered the moment I reached the corporate check-in counter.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Davies,” the concierge said, tapping quickly on her keyboard with a confused, tight frown. “There seems to be an administrative error with your reservation. Your room was cancelled early this morning, and the hotel is completely booked out due to a regional league event.”

  My stomach twisted into a violent knot. “Cancelled? That’s impossible. I confirmed the entire staff block myself yesterday afternoon.”

  Logan appeared beside me like a sudden, dark shadow, towering over the marble desk in a heavy black hoodie and matching sweats. He placed one large, heavy hand on the small of my back, his fingers splaying possessively over my spine.

  “Guess you’ll have to share my room with me, mouse,” he said casually, his baritone voice low enough that only I could catch the dark satisfaction vibrating beneath it. “My suite has plenty of room.”

  I turned on him, my heart racing against my ribs. “This was you, wasn’t it?”

  His smirk was pure predator. “My family owns a stake in this hospitality group, Rhea. Money talks. Now stop making a scene in front of the front office and come upstairs like a good girl.”

  I had absolutely no leverage. The rest of the team was already dispersing toward the elevators, and Potter Watts gave me a sympathetic but ultimately helpless look from across the lobby. No one in upper management was going to challenge Logan McAllister when his performance in the crease was single-handedly carrying the team’s wildcard hopes.

  The elevator ride to the top-floor penthouse suite was a suffocating, silent torment. Logan stood directly behind me, his massive frame radiating a heavy, oppressive heat. His hand never left my waist.

  The suite itself was obscene. It was a sprawling marble-and-glass masterpiece overlooking the glittering Chicago skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a private stone terrace, and a king-sized bed that dominated the master bedroom. It screamed untouchable wealth and total isolation.

  The heavy oak door clicked shut behind us, the deadbolt engaging automatically.

  “Ground rules,” Logan baritoned, tossing his duffel bag onto the leather couch. He stalked toward me with slow, deliberate strides, his eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. “You sleep in my bed. Every single night. Or you sleep on the bare floor with no blankets. Your choice, mouse.”

  I backed up until the backs of my knees hit the plush edge of the mattress. “Logan, this is ridiculous. I can easily sleep on the living room sofa—”

  He closed the remaining distance in a fraction of a second, his large hand clamping around my chin with bruising force. “Did I fucking stutter? The bed. Or the floor. Those are your only options. And if you choose the floor, I’ll personally make sure you’re too cold and uncomfortable to close your eyes. I want you right where I can reach you.”

  His rough thumb dragged across my bottom lip, parting it. “I like watching you when you’re vulnerable. When you’re scared. When you’re trying so damn hard not to want me.”

  I swallowed hard, the coldness of the marble flooring making my skin crawl, especially after a exhausting travel day. But sharing his bed felt like stepping directly into the lion's mouth.

  “I… I’ll take the bed,” I whispered, hating how fragile and small my voice sounded in the vast suite.

  Logan’s smile was completely feral. “Smart choice.”

  He forced me to unpack my things under his direct, watchful eye, then ordered a high-protein room service meal while I locked myself in the bathroom to shower. When I finally emerged in modest, long-sleeved silk pajamas, he was already in the bed. He was shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest on full display, the dark ink of his tattoos looking even more menacing in the low light of the room.

  “Get in,” he commanded, patting the mattress.

  I climbed onto the mattress, keeping my body as tightly coiled to the absolute edge of the frame as humanly possible. Logan reached over and killed the main lamps, leaving only the silver glow of the Chicago skyline filtering through the glass.

  Then, he just… stared.

  For what felt like agonizing hours, he lay on his side facing me, those cold grey eyes wide, dark, and completely unblinking in the shadows. I could feel the weight of his gaze tracing every single line of my silhouette. My face. The rapid rise and fall of my chest. The frantic way I clutched the duvet to my chin like a shield.

  “You’re shaking,” he murmured into the quiet room, his gravelly voice sending a traitorous shiver down my spine. “Scared I’m going to touch you, Rhea? Or scared that you might actually want me to?”

  I didn’t dare answer. My heart hammered so loudly against my ribs I was certain he could hear the rhythm.

  Logan shifted closer across the sheets. He didn’t physically touch me, but he moved close enough that his suffocating body heat completely enveloped me.

  “This is how it’s going to be from now on, mouse. You in my space. In my bed. Under my watch. I own every single second of your life until this contract is fulfilled. And even then…” His voice dropped into a dark, promise-laden whisper. “I don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

  He reached out with agonizing slowness, his thick fingers brushing a stray strand of honey-brown hair away from my forehead, his calloused skin lingering against my cheek.

  “Sleep, mouse,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “I’ll be right here. Watching. Protecting what’s mine.”

  I lay there frozen, my eyes wide in the dark, feeling the suffocating gravity of his obsessive stare like a physical weight on my chest. The city lights twinkled outside, beautiful, indifferent, and completely out of reach.

  There was no escape from the hotel. No escape from him. And as absolute exhaustion finally took over, my eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the dark.