The Pucking Ice King

　　Before the folder was pushed across the mahogany desk, there was the silence. It was the heavy, suffocating kind that usually preceded a corporate execution or a medical diagnosis.

　　Potter Watts didn't look like a savior. He looked like an accountant who had spent forty years supervising a slaughterhouse. He kept his large, blunt hands flat on the wood, his gold Tigers championship ring catching the low amber light of the desk lamp.

　　"You haven't touched your coffee," Potter noted.

　　I looked down at the porcelain cup. The surface of the dark liquid was perfectly still. "If I drink it, my hands will shake. If my hands shake, you'll think I'm weak, Mr. Watts."

　　"You are weak, Rhea," he said bluntly, zero warmth in his gravelly voice. "Physically. Psychologically, you're a walking bruise. I read the police report from your apartment in the city last year. A fractured wrist and a wiped bank account because you forgot to log out of your email?"

　　The reminder hit me like a physical blow to the sternum. The air caught in my lungs, and for a terrifying second, my throat locked. The muscle memory of my stutter flared—a heavy, thick block at the base of my tongue.

　　Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale.

　　"That has... nothing to do with this contract," I managed to say, forcing the words through the block with rigid precision.

　　"It has everything to do with this contract," Potter grunted, leaning his massive bulk forward. His shoulders were so broad they completely blocked the glass view of the dark ice rink behind him. "Greyson was a low-level leech. A small-time parasite who used words to keep you small. Logan McAllister is a different breed of apex predator. He doesn't just want to keep you small; he wants to consume everything in his radius to feed his own rage."

　　He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a small, black leather ledger, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a dull, heavy thud.

　　"What is that?" I asked.

　　"The line-item expense report for Logan's off-ice behavior over the last twelve months," Potter said. "Open it."

　　With hesitant fingers, I flipped the ledger open. The pages were covered in neat, columned numbers, typed out by a legal team that clearly worked around the clock:

　　June 14: Property damage, The Ritz-Carlton Chicago. Penthouse suite mirrors, doors, and plumbing fixtures. $42,500.

　　July 02: Non-disclosure agreement and medical settlement, private security guard, Boston. $110,000.

　　August 18: Structural repairs, Tigers Facility elevator shaft. $18,700.

　　September 05: Legal retention fees, blood-alcohol level dispute, state troopers. $65,000.

　　"He doesn't care about money because he has too much of it," Potter explained, his eyes fixed on mine, searching for a flinch. "His father's oil company pumps more cash into his trust fund every morning than you'll see in a lifetime. He pays these fines like he's buying a pack of gum. But the league doesn't care about his father's oil. The commissioner told me yesterday morning: one more incident—one more headline that uses the words assault, steroids, or arrest—and Logan is suspended indefinitely. No arbitration. No appeals."

　　"And the team loses its franchise goalie," I whispered.

　　"The team loses its identity," Potter corrected fiercely, his voice dropping an octave. "The Tigers are a religion in this city, Rhea. If we tank, three hundred arena employees lose their jobs next summer. The stadium contract gets defaulted. I lose my life's work. I am handing you a grenade with the pin already pulled. If you drop it, it won't just kill your career. It will blow whatever is left of your life into ash."

　　I stared at the numbers in the ledger, then down at the glossy photo sitting in the main folder. Logan McAllister. His pale grey eyes seemed to mock me from the paper, challenging me to step into his cage. He was gorgeous, brutal, and utterly unhinged.

　　"You're paying me enough to clear my debt," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the hum of the office ventilation. "But you're also paying for my silence. If he... if he becomes physical with me, what is the protocol?"

　　Potter didn't blink. He reached out, took the ledger back, and slid the contract toward me, pointing a thick finger at the bottom line.

　　"The protocol is that you handle it internally," Potter said coldly. "There are no cops, Rhea. There are no statements to the press that haven't been vetted by me first. You are his shield, but you are also his cage. If he clamps his jaws around you, you look him in the eye and you make him swallow the blood. Can you do that?"

　　The sheer, transactional cruelty of his words should have disgusted me. It should have sent me running out of the facility and back into the cold night. But as I looked at the heavy pen resting on the desk, a terrifying wave of clarity washed over me.

　　I was already broken. Greyson had already taken my dignity. My debt had already taken my freedom.

　　Logan McAllister couldn't take anything from me that hadn't already been stolen.

　　"Give me the pen," I said.

　　Potter's face didn't soften into a smile, but a grim satisfaction settled into his eyes. "Good girl. Now go down to Suite B. He's already down there, and based on the text I just got from security, he's already looking for something to destroy."