You Traded Me for Your Ex, So I Crowned Your Worst Rival

POV: Chloe Hayes

I had sent the BlackHawks driver away with one message for Maddox: give me two hours to clear out my equipment and my home.

The banquet hall backstage was alive with the smell of champagne, expensive cigars, and sweat. Players in tailored suits were laughing loudly, passing around the conference trophy while team executives toasted to their upcoming championship bonus.

I stood by the equipment crates near the rear exit, packing my personal diagnostic tools into a small canvas bag.

Heavy footsteps approached from behind.

"Where the hell were you after the final whistle?" Logan demanded.

He stopped two feet in front of me, loosening the silk tie around his neck. His face was flushed with adrenaline and liquor, his chin tilted up with the effortless arrogance of a franchise captain who believed the world revolved around his skates.

"I asked you a question, Chloe," he said, stepping closer. "My right ankle was swollen after the third period. I sat on the training table waiting for twenty minutes, and you were nowhere to be found. Do you think winning the semifinals means you get to slack off?"

I zipped my canvas bag shut without looking at him. "I had other matters to attend to."

"Other matters?" Logan scoffed, pulling a folded white document from his inside jacket pocket and slapping it against my chest. "You work for me. Nothing else comes before my recovery."

The paper fell against my hands. I unfolded it.

Printed at the top in bold black letters was a revised employment agreement reassigning me to the Storm's secondary development squad in the basement training wing. It outlined a sixty-percent pay cut, mandatory weekend laundry duties, and complete reassignment to the rookie reserve squad.

"Consider it a gift," Logan said smoothly, crossing his arms. "Miller wanted to let you go entirely. I went out of my way to protect you. Sign it tonight, and you can keep your locker room access."

I looked up at his handsome, callous face. "A reserve assistant? With an entry-level wage?"

"You should be thanking me," Logan replied, his tone dripping with patronizing pity. "A public clinic tech without a prestigious degree would kill for a spot in an elite organization, even on the development squad. You get to stay near me. That’s what you really care about anyway, isn't it?"

Before I could answer, the sharp tap of designer shoes echoed against the concrete floor.

"Did she sign it yet, babe?"

Serena Miller strolled into the hallway, wearing a backless crimson dress that clearly cost more than my annual salary. She wrapped both arms around Logan’s bicep, leaning her head against his shoulder as if staking her territory.

"She’s just looking it over," Logan said, his voice softening instantly as he looked down at her.

Serena turned her gaze toward me, offering a sweet, predatory smile. "Congratulations on the new assignment, Chloe. But before you move your things down to the rookie quarters, there’s business to handle. I need your master rehabilitation binders and the digital drive containing your proprietary nerve-treatment logs from the last five seasons."

I tightened my grip on the canvas bag strap. "Those are my personal medical research logs."

"They were created while you were employed by the Storm," Serena countered, extending an open hand toward me with painted red nails. "I am the Lead Physical Therapist for the Finals now. Logan needs those specific joint-release protocols to manage his rotator cuff for Game One. Hand them over. They're team property, and frankly, a girl in the basement league won't have any use for advanced neurological data anyway."

Several players from the first line paused on their way to the bar, gathering in a loose circle to watch the spectacle.

"Come on, Chloe, just give Serena the files," called out Brock, the alternate captain, holding up a beer bottle. "Don't be bitter about the roster update. Think about the team for once."

"Yeah, act like a professional," another veteran chimed in with a smirk. "Serena’s family practically owns half this franchise. She knows how to manage championship players better than a backroom masseuse."

Logan looked around at his teammates, basking in their support, before fixing his eyes back on me.

"You heard her," Logan commanded, holding out his hand. "Give Serena the drive. Right now."

"No," I said clearly.

The laughter in the hallway died down.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine anger replacing his smug grin. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, meeting his stare without flinching. "Every single line of those recovery protocols was developed using my independent research, on my personal time, with ingredients I paid for out of my own pocket. You don't own my mind, and neither does Serena."

A vein pulsed along Logan’s jaw. He stepped directly into my space, his chest almost pressing against mine as his voice dropped to a harsh, venomous hiss.

"You ungrateful little bitch," he spat, loud enough for every player and staff member in the hall to hear. "You think you're special because you rubbed my shoulders for five years? You were a nobody when I pulled you out of that public rehabilitation ward. I gave you a career. I gave you access to the biggest stage in North America."

"I kept you on the ice when your knee was shattered," I said, my voice steady and cold. "Without my treatments, your career would have ended two years ago."

"Shut your mouth!" Logan roared, his face darkening with rage.

He reached out, grabbed the official Storm credential hanging around my neck, and ripped the lanyard apart with a violent snap. The nylon cord sliced against the skin of my collarbone, but I didn't make a sound.

Logan held up the plastic badge, displaying my name and photo to the entire corridor.

"You're just a jealous, low-class scrub throwing a tantrum because a real woman took your place!" Logan yelled.

He threw the badge onto the concrete floor, lifted his heavy dress shoe, and slammed his heel down on the plastic. The hard acrylic cracked into splintered fragments, snapping my photo in half under the sole of his shoe. He twisted his foot, grinding the pieces into dust.

"You want to play tough?" Logan snarled, glaring at the shattered remains on the ground. "Then you're done here. You don't even get the reserve job. I'll have Miller terminate whatever is left of your deal, and I'll make sure every GM on this continent hears about you. Without me, you are nothing."

A heavy silence settled over the hallway. Serena rested her chin on Logan’s arm, watching me with victorious amusement, while the other players smirked and whispered among themselves.

I looked down at the broken pieces of plastic scattered across the floor.

The last trace of warmth inside me went completely dark. Five years of devotion, endless nights of nursing his battered body back from career-threatening injuries, all wiped away in five minutes of cheap cruelty.

I raised my head and looked directly into Logan’s eyes.

"You don't have to fire me," I said, my words crisp and sharp as broken glass. "I already submitted my formal resignation to the team legal portal twenty minutes ago."

Logan blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second.

"And under section four of my independent medical agreement," I continued, voice cutting through the quiet room, "my resignation immediately revokes all authorization for the Storm to use my registered joint-recovery formulas, my therapeutic nerve protocols, and my patented compounds. If any of your staff uses or reproduces my proprietary methods during the Finals, I will sue this franchise into bankruptcy."

Logan stared at me, then burst into a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Is that your little power move?" Logan sneered, shaking his head with total disbelief. "You think you can scare me with some fake legal threats? You're playing hard to get because you want me to chase you."

He turned back toward Serena and the laughing players, waving his hand dismissively at me.

"Go ahead and walk out that door, Chloe," Logan shouted after me. "You won't last three days out in the cold. Before Game One starts, you'll be on your knees in my penthouse, crying and begging me to take you back."