Chapter 3
THREE
TODD
The rink’s the only place that ever makes sense. Out here, everything’s clean—lines, plays, timing. Predictable. Controlled. My kind of peace. At least, it usually is.
Today, that peace doesn’t stand a chance.
Because Logan is grinning at me from across the blue line like the last three years didn’t happen. As though he didn’t corner me in a hotel hallway after we won the championship, lean in too close, and make my entire world tilt on its axis.
I hadn’t even realized I wanted it—him—until that second. And then I did. And it scared the hell out of me.
So I did what any coward does when faced with something he doesn’t understand. I avoided him, ignored him, acted like it hadn’t happened. And by the time I figured out what it meant, it was too late. He’d transferred, and I told myself it was for the best.
Can you say repressed? Yeah. That’s me. So deep in the closet that even hooking up with random guys on Prism is touch and go.
I shake my thoughts away from hook ups and the closet I live in and try to focus on the ice and puck and everything that has ever made sense.
It’s hard with Logan staring at me, tracking my every move.
I’m pretty sure he knows. He probably knew back then when he tried to kiss me that I like guys.
No way he would have done it if he thought I was straight.
I tighten my grip on my stick, trying to focus on drills, on the sound of blades cutting into ice, on anything but the weight of his stare.
Logan always knew how to get under my skin when we were teammates before.
We used to push each other—it made us better players.
But he still knows how to do it, without even a single word.
It heats my skin, makes me all too aware when he skates too close.
And a strange electric sensation in my stomach comes to life when he blocks me and we collide, pads smacking against each other.
And the worst part? My dad’s voice sits somewhere in the back of my head, full of jokes he doesn’t realize are cruel—about real men and hockey—the kind that make sure I keep my mouth shut and my walls up, even now.
Out here, I’m Captain Shaw. Leader. Focused. Dependable. Not the guy who once almost kissed his teammate in a hotel hallway. Not the guy still thinking about it three years later.
I force myself to focus as Coach blows the whistle.
We’ve been running drills all morning. My usual D-partner, Peter, got stuck with a freshman. Coach said he wanted to “see some new chemistry.”
Translation: I’m living in hell.
“Shaw! Brooks!” Coach’s voice cuts through the echo of skates and sticks. “Again—and tighten it up. If you two figure your timing out, you’ll be a nightmare pair for opposing teams. Nationals are in our reach this year, boys. Don’t blow it.”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, Coach.”
Logan’s smirk says he caught that emphasis on pair. He glides toward me, easy and unbothered, as if this isn’t the most stressful thing that’s happened to me in years.
“You heard the man,” he says, voice low enough only I can hear. “We’re a nightmare together.”
He isn’t wrong. Him being here, on my team, is a living nightmare, but I’m sure that’s not what Coach or he means.
“Focus on the drill,” I snap.
He shrugs, grin lazy, showing off a dimple in his cheek I’ve never noticed before. “Sure thing, Captain.”
I push off, skating backward as the drill starts. He comes at me fast—showy, smooth, confident in a way that makes my pulse tick up. I cut him off, stick out, forcing him to shift his weight. For half a second, our eyes lock.
That spark hits again—sharp, hot, and unwanted.
I hate that stupid electric jolt that shoots through me. Hate that I’m reacting to him in any way.
He fakes left, tries to dart around, but I read him and throw my body into position—enough pressure to knock him slightly off balance. He recovers quick, chasing the puck toward the boards with a laugh that hits me square in the chest.
“That all you got?” he taunts over his shoulder.
My jaw tightens. “I can bench-press you if I need to.”
“Promises, promises,” he sing-songs, that wide grin flashing as he circles back toward me.
And damn it, I feel it again—the pull, the heat under my skin that has nothing to do with the ice or the workout. It’s all him, and this building…I don’t know…want? Lust?
I shove it down, locking my shoulders, forcing my tone flat. “Less talking, more skating.”
He just laughs, the sound low and rough and too familiar.
Yeah. This is going to be a long season
The guys on the bench are watching, and I know they can feel it—the push, the pull, the something that shouldn’t be there.
I don’t even know what I want to do. Shove him? Kiss him? Skate away and lock myself in the Zamboni closet until the season’s over?
Coach’s whistle cuts through my spiral. “Good! Run it again. You two—extra practice after lunch. We’re gonna make this pair lethal. They won’t know what hit ’em.”
I swear my soul leaves my body.
Logan slows, coasting into a lazy circle around me, the slow curve of his lips carved in pure sin. “Guess we’re stuck together.”
My throat’s dry. I swallow it down, keeping my glare steady even though my pulse is anything but. “We’re here to play hockey. Try to keep up.”
He winks. “Whatever you say, Shaw.”
The whistle blows again before I can fire something back, and we are dismissed for now. His smirk lingers, though—burned into the edges of my vision no matter where I look.
I skate off before he can see how red my face feels under the helmet. My legs move on autopilot, blades cutting across the ice toward the exit as if I can skate the panic out of my system. Nationals. Focus on Nationals. Not on…whatever the hell that was.
Peter meets me at the gate, stick tucked under one arm, grinning like he knows something I don’t.
“You survived,” he says.
“Barely,” I mutter, taking my helmet off. My hair’s damp with sweat, heart still hammering from more than the drill. “Extra practice? Seriously?”
“Hey, Coach just wants you two in sync. We’re gunning for Nationals this year. I’d kill for that ring.”
I grunt—because he’s right, and because I can’t exactly say my problem isn’t hockey. It’s the human distraction in a navy jersey with smug brown eyes and a grin that should be illegal.
We hit the locker room, the air thick with the smell of gear that’s seen too many games. I yank my pads off faster than usual, like if I move quick enough, I can outrun the tension still buzzing under my skin.
Logan’s still out there with Daniel and Eli, laughing about something. They’ve become fast friends, apparently. Of course they have.
Peter stretches, rolling his shoulders as he glances over. “You good, man? You’re, like, vibrating.”
“I’m fine,” I say—too fast. My elbow pad slips from my hand and clatters to the floor. “Totally fine.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He doesn’t push, just grabs his hoodie. “You coming for lunch?”
“Yeah. Quick bite before Coach ropes me into hell part two.”
Peter chuckles. “Hey, on the bright side, maybe you’ll end up loving him by the end of the season.”
I freeze for half a second, but he doesn’t notice—he’s already walking off toward the exit.
“Right,” I mutter, forcing my voice steady.
I toss my pads into my cubby, the thud of hard plastic against wood louder than it should be. The sound hangs in the air as I grab my hoodie and follow Peter out.
The hallway’s cooler, quieter, but that doesn’t stop the echo of Logan’s grin from burning behind my eyes—or the sharp, unwanted jolt that still hasn’t faded from my chest.
The local diner is only across the parking lot from the rink, the kind of place with checkered floors and old hockey photos on the walls.
Peter and I grab a corner booth, still damp and probably stinking from practice, the warm air from outside clinging to our clothes.
My stomach growls loud enough to make him laugh.
“Hungry?”
“I just spent at least two hours trying to keep Brooks from embarrassing me in front of Coach. I need fuel.”
Peter grins. “You mean embarrassing you on the ice or just by existing? How gay do you think that guy is? He's hot for you. Even I can tell that.”
I shoot him a look, but he just laughs harder.
The waitress swings by—probably our age, blonde hair in a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to cut. She leans on the table, her gaze sliding to me first.
“What can I get you boys today?” Her voice has that lilting, flirty edge, and she’s smiling in a way that probably makes most guys trip over themselves.
I order a burger and fries. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and calls me “hon” when she jots it down. Peter orders a club sandwich, and when she walks away, he leans across the table.
“Dude. She was into you. Like, capital I. And you didn’t even blink.”
I shrug and take a sip of my water.
“I don’t know how you live like that,” he mutters, shaking his head. “If a girl like that looked at me like that? I’d already be imagining what she looks like in bed, moaning my name.”
I glance toward the counter, watching her laugh with the cook. She’s pretty—objectively, I mean, even I can see that, and I’m not into girls. The curve of her smile, the way she tosses her hair, she’s probably even considered beautiful.
But there’s no spark. No pull. Not like the electric jolt I felt earlier whenever Logan so much as smirked at me.
I lean back in the booth, trying to play it off.
I’m used to these conversations with him.
He is so into girls, I don’t think he has another setting.
I’m a little surprised that he even picked up on the fact that Logan is gay, even if he was being obvious in his flirting.
Peter is a lot of things, but observant really isn’t one of them. “Not my type.”
Peter blinks. “You have a type?”
“Sure.” I shrug, keeping my tone light and easy. “Not her, though.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decode something, but before he can press, the food arrives, and I bury myself in my burger.