Chapter Eleven
Logan
Part of me regrets insisting that Sawyer be seen by Doctor Bennett almost three weeks ago after she got drunker than a skunk, although it did confirm she was healing from a low-grade concussion.
Since then, without directly saying it, she’s been reestablishing that we’re in a service provider and client relationship. Not frosty, but her demeanor is sure as shit not friendly.
Which would normally suit me just fine. I don’t need any more friends, and I don’t want the complication of any other type of relationship. She’s with me to do a job, and my job is the only thing I care about.
Except, it kind of pisses me off that she can brush off the immediate connection we had as though it was nothing more than an inconvenience.
It annoys me that I want to know her.
Even with Doctor Bennett, she was so vague about how she hit her head that it definitely felt like she was hiding something. I can only assume the way she hurt herself embarrassed her, since she told me about the fall off the horse readily enough.
Her childhood fall is the last confession she’s given me, and I’m starting to wonder if it’ll be the only one I ever get.
If she wasn’t absolutely pushing my physical skills into beast mode, I’d be a lot madder about her indifference to me personally.
At least professionally, she’s been more focused, more confident in herself since her drunken night out.
When she plans a session, schedules my body maintenance like ice baths and massages, or suggests I increase some aspect of my training, she goes through her thinking in detail with charts and graphs and other players’ stats and what she knows about other training philosophies as comparisons.
With Joe, he trained me, but he didn’t teach me. I did what he wanted me to do, and I never pushed back unless my on-ice performance suffered. Before Sawyer, I didn’t realize that I was missing the “why” a lot of the time and the sense of the bigger picture.
“You’re coming to the game tonight?” I ask from the huge ice bath that’s in a glassed-off room next to her front desk.
I can see her, but I have to speak loudly to be heard.
Normally, we train at the Tucker-Summerset Center, but with our first preseason game tonight, Sawyer thought it might be easier to focus here.
“I think all of Bellerive will be there,” she says.
That’s not the clear answer I’m looking for, and I’m about to call her on it when the bell on her front door goes off. She rises from behind her desk, obviously not expecting someone, a frown marring her face.
“Logan here?” a familiar male voice, that I wished was less familiar, asks.
She gestures toward me, and her father comes into view. “Now isn’t really a great time,” she says.
“I can talk to him in there,” Jonathan steps around her and comes to the door of the ice-bath room. “Just wanted to make sure you were ready for tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I flick an ice cube across the water. Truth is, I’m a bit sore, but that’s never stopped me from performing well as long as my head is in the right place.
“Big game tonight.”
“It’s preseason.”
“Big game for Bellerive,” he clarifies. “All those sponsors and season ticket holders are looking for a show.”
“They’ll definitely get a game.” We’re playing the Michigan Moose, who are, technically, a better team.
As long as I can get fired up, that won’t matter.
Having Jonathan come here to tell me to get my ass in gear is not needed, wanted, or appreciated.
“Unless you think I intend to play half-assed, I’m not sure why you’re here. ”
“The stakes are high,” Jonathan says.
“Dad.” Sawyer appears at his side. “You should go help with all the other things going on at the game tonight. I’ve got Logan handled.”
Sawyer has no idea what any of those “other” things would be—hockey is still not her sport. I can’t miss an opportunity to fuck with her a bit.
“She handles me very well, sir. Stick handling skills, in particular.” I bite my cheek to keep from flashing a grin at the annoyed expression that appears on Sawyer’s face.
“In a professional manner,” she says.
“She is definitely an expert,” I agree. “Grinding me hard.”
She glares at me for a beat and then turns a falsely sweet smile on her dad. “See? Just like you wanted. He’s handled.”
Jonathan glances between us, seems satisfied, and wanders back out into the main office. Their conversation is too low for me to catch all of it before he leaves, but when Sawyer comes back to the door of the glass room, it’s clear she’s not amused.
“Sexual innuendoes? Am I going to have to sue you for sexual harassment?”
“If you’ve got a dirty mind, that’s on you, doc. Everything I said was factually correct.”
“Stick handling skills? Grinding you hard? Really?”
“That’s why I’m in this bath, aren’t I?” The timer she set beeps, and I rise out of the frigid water to grab my towel. She averts her gaze, which feels like both a win and a loss.
“You’re in the bath because there’s research that suggests an ice bath before intense competition might improve performance. We’re testing that theory with these preseason games before it really matters.”
After I’ve wrapped the towel around myself, her posture and pensive expression tell me she’s weighing her next words.
I don’t know if I’ve ever paid such close attention to the subtle shifts in someone else’s mood before.
It’s unsettling, but also oddly comforting, to realize that I’m capable of giving a shit about anyone else’s thoughts and feelings when I barely know them.
“What?” I ask. “You’re thinking about something. Spit it out.”
“Are you still looking for someone else? To train you?”
“Not actively,” I say. “I put my manager and agent on standby. They’ve got a list of names to approach, if you don’t want the job, or I stop thinking you can do it.”
“I can do it,” she says. “I am doing it.”
“I wasn’t bullshitting your dad, doc. You’ve handled me beautifully the last few weeks. I like your methods, but I also need them to work.”
“We’ll see tonight, then.”
“I’m not going to base whether we keep working together or not on one game.
That’d be foolish. You already told me you need eight weeks before you’d be confident any improvements were related to you.
” And I’ve never been tempted to maintain a professional relationship in the hopes of securing a personal one before, but my gut tells me that if I decide not to work with her as a trainer, I’ll never get a shot at anything else either.
Not that I want that. Or maybe I do. Can’t seem to fucking decide.
But I am wondering whether our working relationship is what’s made her put the brakes on the more personal connection that was starting.
Maybe I don’t want anything more with her, and I definitely don’t think I need it, but I do wish I’d had the chance to see what it might have been.
“I appreciate that you’re giving me the time to prove myself,” she says, but her tone is stiff, professional.
I fucking hate it.
“I’ll see you tonight after the game.” I slip into the changing room to get dressed before heading to the arena just as the bell goes for her next physio client.
Bellerive might not know anything about hockey, but after tonight’s game, it’s clear they know how to host an “event” with a capital E.
Except for playoff season, I’ve never seen a crowd so enthusiastically involved in every aspect of the game.
Each face-off, each hit, each goal was treated like the final seconds in a cup match.
And fuck if I didn’t feed off it like they were piping adrenaline into my veins. Three fucking goals—a hat trick, during a preseason game. Every minute I was on the ice, I worked my ass off, and I don’t even feel tired.
Wired is what I feel when I exit the dressing room to meet up with Chayton for postgame drinks. Not that I’ll drink, but we’ll go to a bar, and we’ll pretend like I will.
I catch sight of Sawyer at the end of the wide hallway, talking to Tamiko.
The euphoria that would have made me more talkative than usual with the press—if there’d been any in Bellerive—causes me to lose any sense of chill at the sight of Sawyer clad in a Bellerive Bullets jersey.
If only there was an eighty-eight on the back.
“Doc!”
She turns, and the grin that splits her face matches mine. My heart stutters. It’s been a long time, so fucking long, since someone else’s joy at my success—our success—matched mine. What should have been a nothing game at the start of the season feels like a massive win.
“Did you see?” I ask as she breaks away from Tamiko to head down the hall to me.
“All of them!” She holds up three fingers and then raises her arms in the air in celebration. “Incredible!”
Without stopping to consider the wisdom of my actions, I rush toward her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around.
Her laughter fills the corridor, but when I ease her down, I become hyperaware of every firm peak and soft valley in her body.
The sensation of her pressed so tightly to my hardness sends a rush of warmth through me that comes dangerously close to being too turned on for my own good.
She also smells amazing. The one time I asked her, as casually as I could muster, what perfume she was wearing, she told me it was Tom Ford’s Vanilla Sex.
Vanilla Sex. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
More specifically, having sex with her all over the gym equipment while her vanilla perfume invaded my senses.
Grueling physical activity paired with loose shorts were my only saving graces that day.
I don’t know what it is about her, but there’s some kind of primal force at play. There’s a constant push and pull inside me whenever I’m around her. My brain thinks any involvement beyond trainer-trainee is impossible and, frankly, stupid. So stupid.