Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
The difference between dirty and filthy
Logan
Steel on ice. Boards rattling. The crowd a low, hungry roar.
Normally, when I’m out here, everything fades. It’s clean angles, sticks, bodies. Read the rush, kill it dead. But tonight, she’s still in my head. Lulu in my lap, breathless and breaking, whispering she’s wanted me forever.
It should fuck me up. Instead, it’s jet fuel.
First period, their winger tears down the left side, fast and cocky.
I match him stride for stride, shoulder dropping just as he tries to cut inside.
Impact slams through me when I hit him clean, his body crashing against the glass.
The puck jars loose, and Chase is there in a flash, scooping it up and flying out of the zone while the crowd roars.
Second period, we’re killing a penalty. Their forward winds up for a bomb from the circle, and I drop low, take it square off the shin.
Pain explodes, bone ringing, but the puck ricochets harmlessly into the corner, and Ryan clears it down the ice.
I grit my teeth and stay in the play. No way I’m letting them set up again.
Third period, tie game, five minutes left. They’re swarming our zone, bodies clogging the crease. One of their guys sneaks open on the back door, stick cocked for a sure goal. I pivot hard, lunging across the slot, and sweep my stick out just in time to knock the puck away.
Ryan scoops up the loose puck and takes off, and I push up ice behind him, legs burning, just enough to give him an option. He threads the puck back, tape-to-tape, and I hammer a one-timer from the blue line. The shot screams through traffic, tips off a stick, and buries top shelf.
The horn blares and the glass rattles. I slam into the glass, teammates crashing around me, the sound deafening.
And the thought rips through me, clear as anything: maybe she’s my lucky charm.
Superstitious bullshit, maybe, but hockey guys cling to it anyway. Same socks, same pre-game meal, same tape job. If Lulu’s what’s got me sharper and faster than I’ve ever been, I’ll take it.
“Somebody’s spicy tonight,” Chase yells, grinning as he slaps my back.
Eli smacks my helmet. “Whatever you’re eating, keep eating it.”
Your sister. Your sister is what I’ve been eating.
They think it’s a hot streak. They don’t know it’s her.
Coach Benson claps my shoulder as I drop to the bench. “That’s the edge we need, Miller. Keep it.”
Yeah. Edge. Lucky charm. Whatever you want to call it, I’ll take her in my head every damn night.
***
The locker room hums with after-game chaos. Showers hissing, reporters barking questions in the hall, boys chirping each other as if we didn’t just grind out a one-goal win on the road.
Chase struts by in nothing but a towel, a maniacal grin in place. “Miller with the missile! Didn’t know you had a cannon hiding back there.”
“Ohh, finally noticed, baby?” I ask, tugging on a T-shirt.
“Don’t be shy,” Jake adds, hair dripping as he leans around his stall. “Couple more clappers like that and I’ll let you take my spot on the power play.”
Ryan barks a laugh. “Yeah, right. He’d be gassed in thirty seconds.”
“I’d last longer than you,” I shoot back, grinning when the boys howl.
Eli’s across the room, smiling at something on his phone, totally oblivious. Relief mixes with guilt in my gut. If he knew what was going on with his sister… fuck. I force the thought down, grab my bag, and keep my head low.
The boys are already making plans. Dinner. Beer. Maybe finding a dancefloor.
“You in, Pooks?” Chase asks.
“Pass. I’m wiped.”
“Old man energy,” Eli chirps, earning a round of laughter.
I flip him off, but it’s half-hearted. Truth is, I’m buzzing. Wired. And it’s not from the game.
Back at the hotel, I stretch out on the bed. Place my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, while it sits there taunting me. I check it twice, three times, fighting the urge to text her. Don’t. Don’t be that guy.
The screen lights up anyway.
Lulu: Question #25: If someone were to start a Sexy Wishlist Jar… should the slips be folded neatly or crumpled for dramatic effect?
A curse tears out of me, half-laugh, half-groan.
Me: You’re relentless.
Lulu: It’s called dedication.
Me: To what?
Lulu: Education. Duh.
I scrub a hand over my face, biting back a grin.
Me: Neither. I’ll burn the content before you get the chance.
Lulu: So dramatic. Dusty says hi, btw. He misses you. Sent his deepest regards while he was drooling on my pillow.
Me: Liar.
Lulu: Okay, he didn’t say it, but I could tell from his eyes.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with granting selections from her Sexy Wishlist Jar. I picture her curled on my couch, Dusty sprawled across her lap, her smile easy.
The dots appear again.
Lulu: Also, Question #26. How far does dirty talk go before it’s considered, you know, actual filth?
I groan into the pillow.
Me: Depends.
Lulu: On?
Me: On whether you can take it.
Lulu: Try me.
Heat stirs low in my gut. Distance makes it worse. Or better. Both.
The phone buzzes again before I can type.
Lulu: PS - I watched your game.
Lulu: You were good. Like, REALLY good.
My stomach tightens. My teammates say it. Coaches, reporters. But hearing it from her? Christ.
Me: You watched?
Lulu: Of course I did. I had Dusty on commentary. He gave you five tail wags out of five.
A laugh cracks out of me before I can stop it, tension bleeding from my shoulders. Nobody outside the rink’s ever cared enough to say it. She did.
The screen lights again, but not from her. Dad.
I kill the call with a thumb swipe, jaw locking. Not tonight. I don’t have the patience for a rundown of everything I could’ve done better, or the backhanded compliment that’ll follow. Not when Lulu’s voice is in my head instead.
The dots bounce.
Lulu: Anyway, thought you should know. You were fun to watch. (Don’t let it go to your head.)
Me: Too late. Already did.
Lulu: Ugh. Regret.
Me: Want me to show you how much?
Her follow-up reply is a video call request. For a second, I stare at it, pulse skittering. Then I swipe.
Her face fills the screen—braid messy, sweatshirt sliding off one shoulder, smile wide. Dusty is sprawled behind her, snoring like a truck.
“Hi,” she says, soft and bright.
I shift against the headboard, trying not to grin like a fool. “Hi.”
We talk. Stupid things, small things. How her students drove her insane. How Chase still chirps mid-shift to start a fight, just because he knows Zoe finds it hot. She laughs, and I’m gone.
Her smile softens, and then her eyes flick sideways, like she’s remembering something. “By the way… Question twenty-six. You didn’t answer properly. Where’s the line between dirty talk and actual filth?”
My pulse kicks, because she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I lean further into the headboard, eyes narrowing on her face in the little screen. “Dirty talk would be me saying I can’t wait to get you under me. That I’ll make you come until you can’t speak.”
Her breath catches, lips parting just slightly.
I let the pause stretch, then drop my voice.
“Filthy would be me telling you I’d spread you out on this hotel bed, push your knees to your chest, and fuck you slow until you’re begging me to go harder.
Filthy would be saying I’d eat your pussy until you’re shaking, admire your glistening clit, then flip you over and fuck you from behind with your ass in the air, one hand on your throat and the other circling your asshole so you can’t decide if you want to scream or come. ”
Her cheeks flame, her braid slipping forward, and the little gasp through the speaker tells me I nailed it. So does my hard on.
I go to open my mouth to tell her as much, but a ping cuts through on her side of the screen. Her eyes flit down, and she winces.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says too fast.
“Lulu.”
She sighs, cheeks pink. “Fine. A dating app notification. I forgot to turn it off. Haven’t even opened it in a couple of weeks.”
“Delete it.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“If we’re doing this—whatever you wanna call it—you’re not dating anyone else. Not while I’m—” I break off, rake a hand through my hair. “Not while we’re doing this.”
Her eyes soften, lips tipping. “Well then, you’re not dating anyone else either.”
There’s no one else, just you. Only you.
A rough laugh tears out of me. “Christ, Parnell. Bossy.”
“Equality,” she says, too damn pleased with herself.
I shake my head, but the heat in my chest won’t fade. This is reckless, insane, dangerous.
But hearing her say she wants only me feels better than any win I’ve ever had.