Chapter 41
LOGAN
So much for worrying that my dad might cause a problem. I did that all by my-fucking-self. And Frankie doesn’t call back before I have to head onto the ice for practice.
I can feel Wilson’s sharp eyes on me as we get started with a wakey wakey drill, warming up the legs.
Is he thinking about our conversation in the elevator in Los Angeles, when I didn’t try to hide that I’d been with a woman overnight? Three days after Stevo saw me wearing a wedding ring in Vegas?
Fuck.
I don’t think I was wearing it that morning when I snarled at Wilson that my private life was private. I’m ninety percent sure it was on the chain around my neck, tucked under my shirt, but it’s like my head is full of warning alarm bells all going off at the same time.
Protect Frankie.
Maintain peace on the team.
We’re so fucking close to making the playoffs.
I have to hope that Wilson is laser-focused on that, too.
By the time Frankie calls me, we’re back at my house.
I answer on the first ring. “Hey,” I say, extra casual. “So great to hear from you. Just got home with my parents.”
My mom and dad turn as one to give me a look.
On the other end of the phone, Frankie pauses, then says, “Not a good time?”
“No, it’s fine.” I move the phone away from my head to indicate to my parents that I’m talking to them now. “I’m going to take this upstairs.”
Then I bound up the stairs, two at a time, only returning the phone to my ear when I’ve clicked my bedroom door shut. “Hi.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I fucked up a little.”
“What do you mean?”
“They noticed my wedding ring.”
“Your parents?”
“My teammates.”
“You—” She take a short, sharp breath. “You said they wouldn’t notice. It’s been a month, Logan. You promised—”
She cuts herself off and the line goes so silent, I worry she’s hung up on me.
“What did you say?”
“I told them to fuck off.”
“Logan!”
“It’s none of their business.”
“Why wouldn’t you lie? Tell them it’s a family heirloom or something.” She huffs a frustrated breath. “Take it off.”
I know she’s right. I know I should put it in my bedside table and not wear it again until I go out to LA, but I fucking hate this.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Because they’ve started asking about it? Or because you won’t take it off?”
“Both.” I flop backward on the bed. “I’ll take it off for the week.”
“Thank you.” She softens her voice. “I’m sorry you couldn’t keep wearing it in secret.”
“Me, too.”
“So your parents are visiting?”
“Yeah. My mom doesn’t know it but she’s getting my house ready for sale.” I close my eyes. “Do you have time to tell me about outrageously expensive Los Angeles real estate? I want something to look forward to.”