Chapter 5

Maya tried her best not to think about Logan’s words from earlier, but the words kept echoing repeatedly in her head. A thick black leather folder sat in the center of Maya’s desk like a warning. She stared at it, a steaming mug of black coffee in her right hand, her medical coat neatly draped over the back of her chair. It was barely eight in the morning, and the training facility was just beginning to come alive with the muffled sounds of skates scraping across distant ice and the dull thud of equipment in the weight room. Maya opened the folder. Printed on heavy paper was a single, tightly formatted document titled *Medical Protocol & Personal Conduct Guidelines — Player 37 (L. Blackwood).* She picked up her red pen and started skimming through the list. With every line, her eyebrows rose higher. 1. No physical examinations without a minimum of two hours' advance written notice. 2. Physical contact is strictly restricted to essential diagnostic procedures. No reassuring pats, no guiding hands on shoulders, no unnecessary palpatory contact. 3. The physician shall under no circumstances enter the private suite, personal recovery room, or private training area designated for Player 37. 4. Personal, psychological, or non-medical inquiry regarding Player 37's background, habits, or private life is strictly prohibited. 5. All physical assessments must be conducted wearing sterile nitrile gloves. No bare-skin contact under any circumstances. 6. Direct verbal communication must remain exclusively confined to immediate clinical assessments. Maya let out a short, disbelieving laugh and tossed her pen onto the desk. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "He didn't write a medical request. He drafted a restraining order." "I wouldn't laugh too loud if I were you, Doc." Maya looked up as a stocky, grey haired man stepped into her office. He wore a grey Boston Wolves polo shirt with a whistle hanging around his neck, and he carried a roll of athletic tape in his large, calloused hand. His face was weathered, lined with the kind of wrinkles that came from three decades of working with professional hockey teams. "I'm Marcus," he said, holding out a hand — bare skinned, to her relief. "Head Athletic Trainer. Welcome to the circus." Maya shook his hand firmly. "Dr Maya Carter. Nice to meet you, Marcus. Are you responsible for delivering this manifest of demands?" Marcus chuckled as he pulled up a chair opposite her desk and dropped into it with a tired sigh. "Nah. That comes straight from Logan's personal attorney, approved by upper management. Every doctor who walks through those doors gets one." Maya gestured toward the open folder. "Is he always this paranoid? I've seen state governors with fewer security protocols than a thirty year old hockey captain." Marcus's easygoing smile faded. "Logan isn't paranoid, Doc. He's just... isolated. He's been captain here for six years. Brought this franchise two Stanley Cups, plays through broken ribs, tore his MCL two seasons ago and didn't miss a single shift in the finals. On the ice, he's a god. Off the ice? He doesn't let a single soul within arm's reach." "That doesn't explain the germophobia or the absolute refusal to let a doctor do her job," Maya pointed out, leaning forward. "He treated me like a biohazard yesterday just because my shoulder brushed his arm." "It's not just you," Marcus said quietly. "It's everyone. No handshakes, no fan high fives, no post-game celebrations where people grab his face or hug him. The guys on the team know the rule: you tap gloves with Logan, that's it. You don't touch his skin, and you don't step into his space." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The last two physicians we had? Top tier sports specialists from Johns Hopkins and Harvard. Great credentials. Both of them thought they could break through his wall, treat him like a normal patient, or push him past his boundaries. The first one lasted three weeks before Logan had him transferred to the minor league affiliate. The second one quit after twenty days because Logan refused to let her conduct a routine post-game concussion check after a heavy hit." Maya leaned back, lacing her fingers together over her lap. "So he drove them out." "He didn't drive them out. He ignored them until they broke," Marcus corrected. "He's got billions in the bank, plenty of influence with the owners, and an iron will. If he decides he doesn't trust you, you become invisible. And in this job, if the captain won't let you treat him, you're useless to the front office." He stood up, slapping his hands against his knees. "Just a word of advice from a guy who's watched a dozen people try to fix Logan Blackwood, don't try to change his rules, Doc. Just sign the sheet, stay out of his way, and take the fat paycheck." Marcus turned and walked back into the hallway, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Maya sat alone in the quiet office, staring at the document. Her mind went back to the night before — to Ethan's dismissive, arrogant face as he told her that her boundaries were an inconvenience he had every right to ignore. He had treated her self-respect like something that needed to be pushed aside for his own comfort. She looked back at Logan's list of rules. They were extreme, yes. Frustrating, cold, and borderline ridiculous for a professional athlete under high-level medical supervision. But as a doctor — and as a woman who had spent four years having her own boundaries slowly worn down — she understood what was underneath all those rules. It wasn't just arrogance. It was protection. She picked up her red pen, capped it, and placed it beside her coffee cup. She didn't sign the document, but she didn't throw it away either. "I'm not here to fix him," she murmured to the empty room. "And I'm certainly not here to beg for his approval." She stood, grabbed her stethoscope, and clipped her medical ID to her lapel. Then she walked out of her office into the high ceilinged athletic training bay, where a few early rising players were stretching near the turf field. Marcus was near the tape station, organizing wraps. He looked up as she approached the counter and dropped her clipboard onto the stainless steel surface. "Did you sign it?" Marcus asked, nodding toward the hallway. "No," Maya said clearly, her voice carrying across the concrete walls of the bay. "I don't sign ultimatum sheets. But I'm not going to fight him on his personal space, either." Marcus paused, one eyebrow raised. "You think you can handle him without pushing back?" "I don't care how many doctors quit before me," Maya said, her chin lifted, her dark eyes steady. "I came here to do a job. I respect patient autonomy, and I respect boundaries. But if Logan Blackwood thinks he can intimidate me into running away with cold looks and legal memos, he's dead wrong. I'm not going anywhere." "Is that so?" The voice came from directly behind her. It was low, deep, and smooth, cutting through the noise of the facility. Maya turned slowly. Logan Blackwood stood in the doorway connecting the weight room to the medical bay. He was dressed in a black athletic tank top and shorts, a dark towel hanging over one broad shoulder. His skin was lightly covered in sweat from his early morning workout, and his dark hair was damp against his forehead. He took three slow steps forward and stopped six feet away from her. His icy grey eyes stayed on hers. Marcus quietly backed away, returning to his supplies without a word. Logan looked down at her, his jaw set and his expression cold. He wasn't looking at her like a doctor or a colleague. He looked at her like someone who had just challenged him. "You think you're different from the rest of them, Dr Carter?" Logan asked quietly. Maya didn't step back or blink. She held his gaze. "I know I am." A faint, cold smile touched Logan's lips before disappearing as quickly as it came. "Then you're going to learn why they quit."