Shut Up and Play (Full Contact #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

TODD

The locker room smells like the sweat that is embedded into our gear and detergent. Home sweet home.

I dump my duffel on my cubby shelf and stretch out like I own the place—because I do. Todd Shaw, team captain, junior year. I’ve got this down to a science.

First day back, and the guys are hyped. Peter’s running his mouth across from me, hands flying as he talks about his “epic” summer training plan that I’m ninety percent sure involved more Cheetos than cardio.

Daniel and Eli are chatting about their summer and all the shit Eli and the Grinch did, not that Max is much of a grump anymore if Eli is around.

After a few minutes, Coach calls us to attention and launches into a speech about conditioning and getting back on the ice after the summer where most of the guys probably slacked off. He’s mid-speech when the door creaks open.

And my entire body freezes.

Logan Brooks.

Holy. Shit.

He looks…different. Older. Broader. Hotter in a way that makes my stomach drop.

His hair’s shorter than I remember, and he’s filled out since high school.

He’s all smooth muscle and confidence wrapped in a plain black T-shirt that clings to him in all the right places, as though he doesn’t even have to try.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, breath a little uneven. “Traffic was insane on I-94. Won’t happen again.”

Coach narrows his eyes, then jerks his chin toward the empty cubby that I just now notice has his last name along the top. “Grab a spot and gear up. We’ll talk after.”

The rest of the team just nods, curious but unfazed. Transfers happen.

Me? I’m frozen.

I haven’t seen Logan since senior year at the championship. The night I almost…yeah. We don’t talk about that night.

Me, leaning against a hotel hallway wall, watching his face transform, his grin soft for once. My pulse hammering in my ears as he leaned in, close enough that I could smell his body wash and his sweat.

I bailed before his lips could even touch mine. Ghosted him so hard I should’ve left tire tracks.

And now he’s standing in my locker room.

The past is coming back to haunt me. And yeah, things are different than they were three years ago, people are more accepting, but still…

the closest I’ve gotten to a relationship or a hook-up since I’ve been here has been when the puck bunnies hit on me.

I turn them down. But that’s the closest I’ve been.

I could probably be labeled a monk by now. Just me and my hand. I hold back a snort.

He doesn’t look at me right away. Just strips off his T-shirt like it’s no big deal.

The way his muscles move as he exchanges his clothes for the gear provided for him shows off every defined inch of him.

Which, cool. Totally fine. Not like his shoulders and chest are distracting as hell or anything.

Peter elbows me. “Yo, who’s the new guy? He’s ripped.”

“Transfer,” I mutter, eyes locked on Logan before I can stop myself. “Defense.”

Logan finally glances up, and I swear my lungs forget how to work. His gaze hits me, slow and deliberate, and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

And I know, without words, that he remembers.

Oh, I am so screwed.

We go around the room for intros. When it’s his turn, he leans against the cubby like he’s posing for a damn hockey magazine. Or our annual calendar.

“Logan Brooks,” he says, voice smooth and low. “Junior. Defense. Happy to be here.”

He flicks his eyes to me again on the last word, and yep, I feel that all the way to my toes.

Practice is a blur of Coach barking and guys grabbing gear. I’m moving on autopilot, lacing skates and checking pads, pretending my heart isn’t sprinting like it’s the championship all over again.

Logan walks past on his way to the tunnel, and his shoulder brushes mine. Just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to set every nerve in my body buzzing.

“Hey, Captain,” he says under his breath, like a secret. “Been a while.”

I swallow hard and follow him, praying nobody can hear the way my pulse is losing its mind.

This season? Just got complicated.

By the time we enter the rink, my nerves are fried.

Cold air blasts against my face as I step out onto the ice, and usually, that first scrape of my blades across the surface settles me. Not today. Not with Logan Brooks ten feet ahead of me, gliding onto the rink like he owns the place.

I hate how good he looks in our jersey.

“Alright, warm-up laps!” Coach yells.

The guys take off. I fall in line, captain-mode on autopilot, calling out reminders about spacing and form. But my attention keeps drifting to Logan. He’s smooth. Faster than I remember. Like he’s spent the last three years getting better just to screw with me.

By the time we shift into passing drills, I’m sweating for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.

Coach claps his hands. “Split into teams for scrimmage!”

Of course, Logan ends up next to me.

“Lucky me,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. His grin is pure trouble.

“Yeah, we’ll see how lucky you feel when I check you into the boards,” I shoot back.

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Promises, promises.”

We line up for the faceoff. He leans in close as we crouch. “Relax, Captain. You’re so tense, it’s like you’re afraid of me.”

I’m not. I just…okay, maybe a little.

The puck drops. Instinct takes over. I explode forward, my stick connecting cleanly as I pass to Peter. We cycle it back and forth, but Logan is right there every second—fast, relentless, brushing against me every time we cross paths.

I’m hyper-aware of everything: the heat radiating off him, the rasp of his breath, the way his shoulder clips mine like it’s an accident.

It’s not.

The first check comes fast. He corners me against the boards, hip to hip, the thud rattling through my bones as my back hits the glass. My pulse spikes.

“Still soft,” he murmurs, low enough that only I catch it.

I shove off and spin, passing the puck down the line just to prove I’m not rattled. But my hands are sweating inside my gloves, and my heart is doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

We trade goals. We trade hits. He plays hard but clean, all smooth edges and sharp smirks, and I hate that part of me is having fun. I haven’t felt this alive on the ice in…God, maybe ever.

When the whistle blows for a switch, we skate to the bench, chests heaving.

Peter elbows me, grinning. “You two gonna fight or make out?”

My stomach nosedives. “Make out?” I choke, way too loud. “I don’t—I don’t make out with guys.”

Peter laughs. “Jeez, chill. I’m joking.”

“Yeah, well…” I fumble with my water bottle like it’s personally attacking me. “Great joke.”

Daniel, perched a few seats down, lifts an eyebrow. The one of the only openly gay guys on the team besides Eli, he has that calm, all-seeing vibe that makes me want to sink into my pads. “Joking or not, he’s not wrong. The energy over there? Very…homoerotic.”

I nearly spit my water. “Homoerotic? No. No homoerotic anything. He’s—he’s defense. I’m a defenseman. We’re teammates. That’s it.”

Daniel smirks. “If you say so.”

And of course that’s the moment Logan tilts his head back, water sliding down his throat, like some slow-motion Gatorade commercial meant to ruin my life. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glinting with pure amusement.

“Sure, Captain,” he says, voice lazy and warm, then he locks eyes with Daniel as he repeats my words, “He’s just competing. He doesn’t like dudes.”

Heat crawls up my neck and under my helmet. “Shut up and play,” I snap, because what else can I do?

“Whatever you say.” His smirk is lethal. If he keeps that up, I might actually combust right here on the bench.

Another whistle. Back on the ice.

We go harder this round. Every time I think I’ve shaken him, he’s there, a shadow at my side. He steals the puck once, twice, and goads me for it under his breath.

When I finally check him into the boards, it’s…way harder than necessary. He barks out a laugh as he skates it off, like he knows exactly why I did it.

The scrimmage ends with Coach calling us to center ice. I can barely hear his speech over the roar of my own thoughts.

Logan Brooks is back in my life. He’s in my space. He’s in my head.

And if I’m not careful, he’s going to drag me right back to the night I’ve been trying to forget.

By the time Coach releases us, I’m drenched. Sweat runs down my spine under my pads, and my legs are jelly. I’m not out of shape—it’s the mental Olympics that’s killing me.

I skate off fast, desperate for the safety of the locker room.

The room is a mess of chatter, the sharp tang of hockey sweat and stinky gear thick in the air.

Peter is already stripping down, humming some dumb song, and Daniel’s leaning against his locker, scrolling his phone like he didn’t just call me homoerotic on the bench.

Eli’s shedding his gear like he’s in some sort of race with someone, and he’s the first one to the showers.

He must be meeting the Grinch for lunch or something.

I yank off my helmet and toss it into my cubby a little too hard. My hair is soaked, sticking to my forehead. I need to cool off—like, actual ice-bath cool off.

Logan strolls in last, of course. He’s always had that unhurried swagger, the kind that says he knows people are watching. He drops his stick, peels off his gloves, and pulls his jersey over his head in one smooth motion.

My brain short-circuits.

He’s…yeah, a second look doesn’t change my opinion. Bigger than in high school. Broader shoulders, cut abs, a smattering of dark hair trailing under the waistband of his compression shorts and over his pecs. It looks soft. My fingers twitch involuntarily.

I snap my eyes back to my skates like they’re suddenly the most fascinating objects on Earth.

“Good scrimmage,” Peter says, smacking Logan’s shoulder as he passes.

Logan grins. “Thanks. Shaw made me work for it.”

I freeze halfway through unlacing my skates. “It’s practice,” I say stiffly. “Everyone works for it.”

Logan leans against the cubby two feet from me, close enough that I can smell the mix of sweat and faint cologne that’s going to haunt me in my sleep. “Sure. But not everyone looks like they’re trying to murder me with their eyes while doing it.”

I glare up at him. “I wasn’t—”

“Relax.” He smirks, tilting his head. “It’s cute.”

I almost choke on air. “Cute?”

“Yeah. You get all serious when you’re focused. Brow furrowed. Jaw tight. Little crease right here.” He taps his own forehead. “It’s adorable.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. Words are gone. Completely gone.

Daniel, of course, notices. “Oh my God. He’s flirting with you.”

“I am not!” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck.

Logan’s head tilts, slow and deliberate, a smile curving his mouth like he’s savoring the moment. One dark brow lifts. “Pretty sure he was talking about me, Captain.”

Then he winks.

Daniel bursts out laughing. Even Peter snickers, shaking his head like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.

My stomach does a full-on somersault. “I’m hitting the showers,” I mutter, snatching my towel and trying to look like I’m not fleeing the scene of a crime.

“Cool,” Logan says, tone all casual sin. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I nearly trip over my own skate.

The second I’m around the corner and out of sight, I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater for a full minute.

Showers. Right. Neutral territory. Totally normal. Definitely not a confined, echoing space where a guy can walk in naked and ruin your life.

I yank off the rest of my gear fast, stuff it into the laundry bin, and step into the first empty stall. Cold tile. Steam is already curling in the air. I crank the water on hotter than usual, letting it sting my shoulders. Anything to shock the Logan-Brooks-shaped thoughts out of my head.

Of course, my brain doesn’t cooperate.

All I can think about is him smirking across the bench. The way he winked like we had some secret. As if he could still read me after three years.

Pretty sure he was talking about me. His voice echoes in my skull.

Footsteps scuff against the wet floor, and I freeze.

“Hope you saved me some hot water, Captain.”

My stomach drops. Logan’s voice, way too close.

I don’t look over the low divider, but I feel him there, the weight of his presence flooding the room. He’s humming under his breath as he steps into the stall next to mine, water hissing on.

I scrub at my hair like it’s a life-or-death mission. “You don’t have to shower next to me, you know. There are, like, ten other stalls.”

He laughs, low and unbothered. “Yeah, but none of those come with free entertainment.”

I almost drop the soap. “Entertainment?”

“You’re so jumpy,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s adorable.”

“I’m not jumpy.” My voice cracks.

A beat of silence. Then, softer, teasing, “Still lying to yourself, huh?”

I grip the edge of the tile, water cascading down my back, and pray my face isn’t as red as it feels.

The showers have never felt smaller. Or hotter.

The water hisses, echoing off the tile, and I focus on it like it can drown him out. Steam curls around us, warm and heavy, making it hard to breathe.

Then his voice cuts through, even softer now.

“You're still in the closet, huh?”

My stomach twists. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” There’s no teasing in his tone now. “Just like that night.”

The words slam into me harder than any check on the ice. I grip the soap bar, knuckles white.

“I don’t—” My throat tightens. “That was…high school. It didn’t mean anything.”

A soft laugh, humorless this time. “Didn’t mean anything, huh?” He pauses long enough for me to imagine him shaking his head, water dripping off his hair. “You looked at me like it did. That night.”

My chest aches, and the steam suddenly feels suffocating.

He’s right, and he knows it. That night at the championship afterparty—empty hotel hallway, adrenaline still buzzing, him leaning in close, and me frozen, too scared to close the last inch.

And then—

“Logan…” My voice is barely a whisper over the water.

“Relax, Captain,” he says, and the teasing edge is back, softer this time. “I’m not gonna kiss you in the showers. Unless…”

I snap my head toward the wall, heart in my throat. “Don’t.”

He laughs again, low and warm, like he just won something. “Just checking.”