Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
You wouldn’t survive one of my workouts
Logan
The clang of weights and the low thrum of bass in my headphones drown everything out but the burn in my shoulders. Reps, sets, and sweat. Simple. None of it asks questions I don’t want to answer. None of it looks at me like I’ve grown a second head for letting Eli’s sister crash in my guest room.
Which is why I almost drop the bar when someone knocks my shoe with the end of a hockey stick.
“Jesus!” I shove it back into the rack and tug my earbuds out. “You trying to take me out before the season properly starts?”
Reid leans on the stick like it’s a cane, expression dry as bone. “If I wanted to take you out, Pookie, you wouldn’t see it coming.”
“Good to know,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. “What are you even doing here? Thought you were at your grandpa’s.”
“Was,” he says. “Stopped in on my way back. Figured I’d get a workout in while I watch you dislocate something trying to impress yourself in the mirror.”
I flip him off, but he doesn’t crack. Just drops his bag, pulls off his sweatshirt, and starts wrapping his wrists.
It takes maybe two minutes before his eyes glance sideways, sharp as a blade. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” He doesn’t even look up. “What’s going on?”
I could blow him off, but Reid’s the kind of guy who’ll just keep staring until you cave. So I cave. “Pipe burst at Lulu’s. Plumber says it’ll take a few days to dry out, so she’s staying at mine till it’s fixed.”
That gets me a full turn of his head, one brow arched high. “Your teammate’s sister. Bold choice.”
“It’s not a choice,” I snap. “She needed a place, and I’ve got a guest room. We’re not fucking.”
Reid hums, like he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Doesn’t need to be happening yet for you to be fucked.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Yoda.” I grab the bar, racking another set of weights just to avoid his stare.
He smirks, unbothered. “You should embroider that on a pillow.”
I glare, but the words still stick, heavy as the bar across my shoulders, because he’s not wrong.
By the time I leave the gym, Reid’s words are a splinter under my skin.
Doesn’t need to be happening yet for you to be fucked.
I tell myself I’ll burn it off on the drive. Roll the windows down, crank the volume, think about practice tomorrow instead of the fact that Lulu is still in my house.
But the second I push through the front door, warmth hits me square in the chest.
Not just actual heat, but the smell—garlic, pepper, something cooking. And underneath it, something softer, which I realize is the sound of her voice.
I follow it through to the kitchen and stop dead.
She’s barefoot at the stove, humming some tuneless thing, hair piled in a knot with strands spilling everywhere. Dusty is sprawled across her feet, tail wagging slow and steady every time she shifts or speaks to him.
The table’s already set. Two plates, forks lined up, glasses filled. Steam curls off a platter stacked with grilled chicken and rice.
“Hey.” She glances over her shoulder, so bright. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s ready.”
“What is this?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
Her mouth quirks. “Dinner? Unless I completely screwed it up. I remembered what you ordered the other night—chicken, broccoli, rice, boring as hell. But I wasn’t sure about the amounts, so I called Tamara and got the actual ratios right for in-season team meals.”
For a second, I’m lost for words. She’s across the hall from me for three minutes, and somehow, she’s already slotted herself into the cracks no one else even notices.
I just stand there, because this isn’t my life. My life is protein shakes, takeout over scouting reports, the occasional team meal. Not someone who not only cooks for me, but ensures I’ve got the exact right plate in front of me.
“Lu—” I stop, shake my head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She casually shrugs a shoulder, turning back to the boiling broccoli. “Didn’t want you wasting away on dirt water and powder shakes. Plus, I kinda like cooking when it’s for someone else.”
I huff a laugh, but it sticks in my throat, because she says it as if it’s obvious. Like, of course she’d check, of course she’d care, of course she’d cook.
Not my parents, with their critiques after every game.
Not the girls who liked the idea of being with a hockey player.
Her.
Humming in my kitchen, barefoot with my dog at her ankles, feeding me with a care that seems woven into her bones.
And that feels foreign, and very fucking dangerous.
We eat at the table like it’s our own private date night.
Forks scraping, Dusty sprawled at our feet, waiting for scraps he’s not getting.
She chatters about her students and her week ahead, and I grunt at the right places, but the truth is, I’m not concentrating on the story as much as I’m concentrating on her.
The way her voice rises and dips, how her hands move when she gets caught up in the details.
After I clear the plates, she flicks the TV on without asking, dropping onto her favorite spot on my couch. Summer Shoreline splashes across the screen, the opening credits rolling, and she pats the cushion beside her.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” She tucks her legs under herself. “Sit. It’s the midseason finale. I can’t watch alone.”
“Haven’t you already seen this one?”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “Nah, just seen the spoilers online. Anyway, you haven’t, and I like seeing you pretend you don’t care.”
I shake my head, but I sit anyway. Dusty hops up, sprawling between us for about three seconds before worming his way into her lap.
The episode kicks off—two leads whispering about their secret relationship behind a row of beach cabanas—and Lulu cuts me a side glance, eyes dancing. “See? I knew you were a closet Shoreline fan.”
“Not a fan,” I mutter. “But if I’m forced to watch, I may as well use it as research.”
“Research?” She snorts. “For what? How to smolder in board shorts?”
I bite down a smile, refusing to give her the satisfaction. “Pretty sure I’ve got that covered.”
She tips her head, eyes sparkling. “Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when I see you out there on your swan, brooding across Flamingo Lagoon.”
My jaw tightens, but it doesn’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. “Not happening.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes move over me, deliberate enough to heat my skin. “Debatable.”
I shift in my seat, ignoring the curl down low. Onscreen, the couple is arguing—one wants to go public, the other’s worried about the fallout. The dialogue is clumsy, but the tension’s obvious.
“See?” Lulu says, pointing at the screen. “She just wants to live her life without everyone else’s rules dictating it. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Or,” I counter, “maybe he’s thinking about the bigger picture. About who gets caught in the blast when it blows up.”
“Or,” she fires back, her lips curving, “maybe he’s just scared.”
The words hang there, too pointed, too close to the bone.
I clear my throat, eyes back on the screen. “You should teach debate team.”
She grins, clearly satisfied, and turns back to the screen. But as she does so, her arm brushes mine, laughter spilling out at a ridiculous line delivery.
Then she turns that grin on me. “Don’t worry, Pookie. I won’t tell anyone about your guilty pleasure.”
“Not guilty,” I grumble. “And I’m not your Pookie.”
“Oh, you are.” Her voice drops, playful but warm. “And honestly? You’re lucky I’m not telling Eli how cuddly you get during love triangles.”
Heat flashes across my chest. “Lu—”
“Relax.” She tilts her head, feigning innocence, but her eyes are sharp. “You’re fun to tease when you’re wound tight, Miller.” Her grin softens, shoulder brushing mine. “Makes me like you more when I’m the one who cracks the smile.”
“Makes me less patient,” I mutter, though my lips twitch.
She gasps and nudges her shoulder with mine. “That’s a smile. You’re smiling.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she cuts in with a grin. “Caught you.”
I shake my head, but she’s still pressed against my side, hair brushing my arm, Dusty sprawled across her lap.
And I don’t move.
Once the credits roll, Dusty’s snoring in her lap, his head tipped against the back of the couch. Then Lulu shifts, stretching out, and her legs slide across the cushion until smooth skin brushes my thigh. Casual and effortless, except for every nerve in my body lighting up.
She scratches behind Dusty’s ear, then glances at me, all faux-casual. “You know, you should come on my run with me tomorrow morning. Six a.m. Me, you, Dusty. Up Birch to my spot.”
My head snaps around. “Six a.m.?”
She nods, smile too bright. “It’s good for you. Clears the head, gets the blood moving.”
“I already skate for a living,” I mutter. “Not wasting sleep on sunrise jogs.”
Her grin sharpens. “What’s wrong, Miller? Not efficient enough for you?”
“Running uphill before dawn is the opposite of efficient.”
She nudges my leg with her foot, unwilling to give up convincing me. “You’d finally get to see my spot in person. I think you’d like it.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward. “Pretty sure I’d like sleep more.”
“Fine. Then maybe I’ll settle for seeing one of your efficient workouts. You know, get some pointers.”
I snort, forcing my gaze to stay glued to the dark screen and not her shin resting against my leg. “Trust me, Parnell. You wouldn’t survive one of my workouts.”
“Oh?” she drawls, nudging my thigh. “Sounds like a challenge.”
I risk a glance at her, and she’s already watching me, eyes dancing, knowing exactly how far she’s pushing. And I should shut it down, I should move, but instead, my lips twitch. “Careful what you wish for.”
Her answering laugh slides under my skin, warm and dangerous. Then she shifts, voice casual but eyes still sharp.
“Suit yourself, but Dusty’s on Team Lulu for tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “One run. But if I die halfway up, you’re explaining it to Eli.”
Her eyes light up. “Did Logan Pookie Miller just agree to a six a.m. run with me?”
“Don’t push it.”
She grins anyway, turning back to the screen, triumphant. And I’m the one rattled, because I can’t remember the last time I agreed to anything that wasn’t on my terms.
The truth is, I like this too much. The banter, the soft chaos she brings, the way my house doesn’t feel so hollow with her in it.
The more she’s here, the harder it’s going to be to let her go.
And I’m not sure I even want to try.