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

Five years. I fixed every torn muscle, iced every bruise, and turned Logan from a benchwarmer into the league's MVP. I gave up my own career path just to stand behind him. Tonight, holding the Stanley Cup championship ring I designed for us, I stood outside the locker room. Inside, Logan’s voice was ice-cold: “Chloe’s just a certified massager. Give Serena the Chief Physical Therapist title—she brings sponsors, Chloe only brings homemade soup.” Serena laughed, running her fingers over his jersey, while the entire team chimed in agreement. They thought I was a stray puppy with nowhere to run. They didn't know the only reason Logan's knees hadn't shattered was my secret medical protocol. I threw the ring into the trash can, packed my gear, and walked straight into the private box of the league's most ruthless superstar—Logan’s bitterest rival.

***

POV: Chloe Hayes

The arena above was still vibrating with the roar of eighteen thousand screaming fans. Confetti drifted through the air vents, settling along the concrete floor of the tunnel. The Storm had just clinched their spot in the finals, and the sound of the victory horn still echoed in my ears.

I clutched the small metal jar in my coat pocket. Inside was the neuro-cooling salve I had spent the last three weeks perfecting, distilling rare botanical extracts in my home lab until three in the morning. Logan’s right rotator cuff had been deteriorating under the playoff grind, and this formula was the only thing standing between him and season-ending nerve damage.

Tucked next to the jar was a folded piece of tracing paper. It held the rough pencil sketch of a wedding band, designed around the five-year anniversary of the day we first got together. Five years of taping his joints, rebuilding his shattered meniscus, managing his media schedule, and keeping his private medical records out of the press.

Tonight felt like the finish line we had both bled for.

I turned the corner toward the private VIP therapy suite at the end of the locker room hallway. The heavy security door was cracked an inch open, a warm sliver of light cutting across the tile.

I reached for the handle, ready to push it open, when a soft laugh stopped me cold.

"Sit still, Logan. You're getting sweat all over the collar."

The voice belonged to Serena Miller.

I froze. Through the narrow gap, I saw Serena perched on top of the mahogany treatment counter, her bare legs swinging casually over the edge. She had Logan’s game-worn jersey draped over her lap, her manicured fingers tracing the embroidered captain's 'C' across the chest.

Logan was standing between her knees.

The man who usually barked at staff and claimed he was too exhausted after games to hold my hand was leaning down, resting his forehead against her bare shoulder. His eyes were half-closed, his shoulders loose, his face soft with an easy, relaxed indulgence I had not seen in years.

"You're bossy tonight," Logan muttered, his voice low and teasing.

"Someone has to be," Serena replied, running a damp white towel along the curve of his neck, her fingers trailing down his collarbone. "If I don't look after you, who will?"

"You're the only one who matters anyway."

I stood locked in the corridor, the air leaving my lungs in one cold rush. The metal jar in my hand felt suddenly freezing against my palm. Five years of late-night rehab sessions, five years of hiding our relationship so his brand wouldn't take a hit, five years of playing the obedient, invisible team therapist while he climbed to the top.

Footsteps echoed down the hall behind me. I stepped back into the shadow of the equipment lockers just as Grant Miller, Serena’s father and the team’s general manager, marched up to the door and shoved it wide open.

"Logan, we need the final staff clearance sheet for the Finals roster right now," Miller said, holding out a digital tablet and a stylus. "League office needs the certified staff list before midnight."

Logan didn't even pull away from Serena. He casually took the tablet, his eyes scanning the screen.

"You've got Chloe listed as the Lead Physical Therapist," Logan said flatly.

"She’s been your primary for five seasons," Miller replied, checking his watch. "She practically rebuilt your shoulder after the semifinals."

"Take her off."

Miller hesitated, then took the stylus and slashed a line right through my name. Without another word, he tapped the blank box below and typed in Serena Miller.

Miller frowned. "Logan, Serena doesn't have the neurological rehab credentials Chloe has. If your rotator cuff flares up during Game One—"

"Serena is a Miller," Logan interrupted with an arrogant scoff. "Her family owns a major stake in this franchise, and she brings the kind of high-profile sponsor backing this team needs for the championship run. Chloe is just a common massage tech from the public clinic. She has no pedigree, no connections, and no business standing on a championship podium."

"What are you going to tell Chloe?" Miller asked. "She’s dedicated her entire life to keeping you on the ice."

Logan let out a dry, dismissive laugh. "Reassign her to the reserve squad. Let her wash towels and tape ankles for the rookies in the basement."

"You think she'll accept a demotion like that after five years?"

"She won't leave," Logan said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Serena’s ear with total confidence. "She's obsessed with me. She lives for my approval. She'll swallow whatever role I give her just to stay in the same building, because she knows she's nothing without me."

Serena giggled, resting her cheek against his bicep. "Don't be too mean to your little stray dog, Logan."

"I'm just being realistic, babe," he said smoothly.

In the hallway, the sharp edge of the metal jar bit deep into my palm. I pressed harder, feeling the sharp corner puncture my skin until a thin bead of warm blood welled over my knuckles. The physical pain was clean. It cut through the shock and burned away five years of blind, pathetic devotion.

I didn't push the door open. I didn't scream, throw a scene, or give them the satisfaction of my tears.

Turning on my heel, I walked toward the industrial trash chute at the end of the corridor. I pulled the custom neuro-cooling salve from my coat—the formula worth millions on the open market, the only thing that could save his shoulder from tearing apart in forty-eight hours—and dropped it straight into the waste bin.

Next went the folded sketch of the wedding ring. It fluttered down into the dark, swallowed by the trash.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were completely steady. I brought up the franchise’s private legal portal, found my independent services agreement, and opened the clause I had insisted on keeping five years ago: an unconditional right to terminate my exclusive services and the Storm’s license to my proprietary treatment protocols upon immediate resignation. My patient-confidentiality obligations would remain intact.

I tapped the screen, signed my name, and hit *Send*.

The notification flashed green: *Contract Terminated. Formula License Revoked.*

I opened the message thread I had ignored for months and sent Maddox Vance three words: *My contract's over.*

A heavy thud vibrated through the concrete as the security doors at the far end of the tunnel clicked open.

Through the tinted glass of the loading dock, a sleek, unmarked black SUV idled quietly in the shadows. The emblem on the front grill caught the overhead yellow light—the silver talons of the BlackHawks, the Storm's fiercest, most ruthless rivals.

The rear window rolled down an inch, the red glow of a private comms light blinking in the dark, waiting for me.