Chapter 9

“What?” Maya blinked as she tried to process what he’d just said. “Just a friendly warning, Doc.” He shrugged and walked away. Maya looked at him until his figure disappeared completely. It seemed like they really underestimated her… she was never going to cower or break under Logan’s intimidation. *** The roar of eighteen thousand fans filled TD Garden, loud enough to shake the thick glass panels around the arena. From her position near the players’ tunnel, Maya watched the Boston Wolves take control of the ice. This wasn’t the same man who had stiffened at the slightest touch in her clinic. On the ice, Logan Blackwood was something else entirely. He moved with speed and precision, controlling the pace of the game without seeming to work for it. Every check was deliberate. Every instruction he shouted to his line was clear. He played hard, without hesitation, and the rest of the team followed him. When the final horn sounded, Boston had won 4–1. The arena erupted. Maya watched the players from the bench as they celebrated. She noticed the way they treated Logan. There was respect between them, but they didn’t crowd him. No one threw an arm around his shoulders or slapped him on the back. They simply tapped their gloves against his, one after another, and gave him his space. They kept their distance from him. Yet they looked at him like they trusted him completely. After the post-game handshakes, the team headed toward the locker room. Maya stood beside the medical cart, checking her supplies again, when a shadow fell over her clipboard. She looked up. Logan stood a few feet away. His chest was still rising and falling beneath his black-and-gold jersey. His dark hair was soaked with sweat, and his gray eyes were fixed on her. “What were you looking at out there, Doctor?” he asked. His voice was rough from shouting throughout the game. “You barely looked at the puck during the third period.” Maya clicked her pen shut. “I was watching my patient. I was keeping an eye on your left side every time you took a hit along the boards.” Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.” “Believe whatever you want, Mr Blackwood,” she placed the clipboard on the cart. “Your intercostal muscle held up, but you still need an ice pack before you leave tonight.” Logan opened his mouth to respond. Then the sound of high heels came down the concrete corridor. A sports reporter appeared with a cameraman behind her. She slipped past the security barrier with a microphone in hand. “Logan! Incredible game tonight!” she called out and walked straight toward him, wearing a bright smile for the camera. “Can we get a quick word about that third-period goal—” Before Logan could answer, she reached out and placed a hand on his bare upper arm, and everything changed. Logan jerked away so fast it looked like he'd been burned. His gloved hand knocked her arm aside with a hard slap. His whole body recoiled, his back hitting the concrete wall behind him. His eyes went wide. For a second, he looked completely lost. His breathing became quick and uneven, each breath catching in his throat. The reporter stumbled backward. She stared at him in shock, one hand wrapped around her reddening forearm as the corridor fell silent.