Chapter 3 #3
“I’m eating,” I mutter, even though my fries are cold and I’m really not hungry anymore, I’m just eating them so I don’t have to talk.
Across from me, Logan bites into a fry. “I’m gonna ask for her number.”
My head jerks up before I can stop it. “What? Why?”
He shrugs, all casual confidence. “She’s cute. Seems like the type who’d give it.”
Something sharp and uncomfortable twists in my chest. Annoyance. That’s all it is. He can do whatever he wants. I force my attention back to my fries, drowning one in ketchup like it personally offended me.
Peter’s grinning like he’s watching a movie. Daniel leans his elbows on the table, openly entertained. “Oh, this I gotta see.”
Eli tilts his head as she returns, clearly waiting for Logan to ask her for her number when we all know he’s into guys.
A moment later, Janine is back with a tray of food and a fresh container of water.
She tops off our waters, smile lingering on Logan.
Then she passes out their food, saying something flirty as she hands Logan a basic mushroom Swiss burger and fries.
He gives her free rein, and that’s what she brings him?
I hold back my internal eye roll. That was a safe choice.
Even as I’m thinking that, I know my irritation isn’t with her, it’s him, and his stupidly handsome face.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table around his plate. “Hey—before you go…” His voice drops into something smooth and lazy. “Think I could get your number?”
Her lashes flutter. “My number?”
“Yeah,” he says easily, grin tilting. “I’m new in town. Wouldn’t mind a tour guide.”
She glances at me for some reason—maybe because I’m the only one not smiling—and I unclench my jaw long enough to shove a fry in my mouth like I don’t care.
Then she grabs a napkin, scribbles something down, and slides it toward him with a flirty wink.
“Thanks, hon.” Logan tucks it into his pocket, eyes flicking back to me just long enough for my pulse to spike.
Daniel snickers under his breath. “And the man scores.”
I grip my water glass, suddenly desperate to leave.
Daniel’s still laughing when I shove my plate away. I can’t sit here another second, not with Logan tucking that napkin into his pocket like he might actually use it.
“I gotta get back to the rink,” I mutter, nudging Daniel out so I can get out of the booth.
Peter blinks. “Already?”
“Coach wants me to run extra drills,” I lie. Maybe it’s not a total lie—he did say we needed more work—but mostly I just need air. Space. A room without Logan Brooks in it.
“Don’t tire yourself out, Captain,” Logan says, voice warm and mocking all at once. He’s lounging there and acting as though he owns the place, his arm still draped across the booth behind Peter, burger half-gone. “I’ll be there in a few. Wouldn’t want my partner practicing without me.”
Partner. The word hits like a body check.
I mumble something noncommittal as I drop my portion of the bill plus tip to the table, then push through the diner door, and let the warm air slap me in the face. My skates and gear are back at the rink, and the quiet of the empty rink is suddenly the only thing I want.
Because out here, with nobody watching, it’s easier to forget the way he smiles like he already knows he’s under my skin.
By the time I’m across the rink parking lot, my pulse is still hammering for all the wrong reasons.
Inside, the locker room is mostly empty, the hum of the vending machine the only noise. Coach is at his desk in his office when I pass, reading over a stack of forms with a pen tucked behind his ear. He glances up, eyebrows shooting up.
“Shaw? Thought you’d be stuffing your face somewhere. You’re back early.”
I keep my voice even, casual. “Figured I’d get a few more drills in. Never enough practice, right?”
He studies me for a second, then nods slowly. “That’s the attitude that gets us to Nationals. Ice is yours for the next hour—don’t burn yourself out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Coach.”
I grab my stick and pull my skates back on, not bothering with all of my pads for running drills, the familiar ritual calming me. Out on the ice, it’s quiet—no Logan, no Daniel or Eli, no teasing or smirks. Just the scrape of blades and the echo of the puck as I pass it off the boards.
Alone, I can almost pretend I’m just…normal. A guy who loves hockey. A captain who doesn’t get rattled by some cocky transfer with a smile that feels like a loaded weapon.
The puck smacks the back of the net with a satisfying clang. I chase down another one, line up, and fire again. Harder. Cleaner. Over and over until my lungs burn and my legs ache, the rhythmic slap of rubber against ice is the only sound in the arena.
The door to the rink squeaks open. My chest tightens before I even look.
Logan steps onto the ice like he owns it, a navy beanie pulled low over his hair, stick balanced casually across his shoulders. He doesn’t say a word as he glides toward center ice, and for a stupid second, I think maybe he’s going to leave me alone.
Nope. He drops his stick and starts his warm-up stretches, slow and lazy.
I try not to look. I really do. But it’s impossible to ignore the way he bends forward, folding in half against the ice, the long lines of his legs in those black compression pants. Then he straightens and swings around, and twists his hips, low and controlled, like he’s grinding into the ice.
I swallow hard, jerking my gaze back to the puck. Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed burned into my brain.
Another slap shot rings out.
“You always practice like you’re mad at the net?” His voice carries across the ice, teasing, humor lacing his words.
“Helps me focus,” I mutter, grabbing the next puck.
He coasts closer, his skates whispering over the ice, and drops into a crouch. “Good. ‘Cause I’m here to make sure my partner doesn’t choke at Nationals.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “We’re not partners.”
“Could’ve fooled Coach,” he says, flashing that slow, infuriating grin. “Besides…I think we make a good team.”
I fire another puck just to avoid answering, but my chest feels tight, and I hate that I can still see the memory of his hips moving and thrusting into the ice burned behind my eyes.
After a breath, I send another puck flying into the net, the sharp echo bouncing off the empty arena. Logan glides to a stray puck, crouching to scoop it up with the tip of his stick. He flicks it toward me like we’ve been doing this together forever.
“Come on, Shaw,” he says. “Let’s run it like Coach wanted. You and me. Full speed.”
I exhale hard, like I can blow the tension out of my lungs. “Fine.”
We line up, me skating backward to defend, him charging forward with that lazy, confident posture that always turns lethal in the blink of an eye.
The first rush is a blur—his stick flashes, my skates cut hard, and our shoulders collide with a solid thud.
The impact zings through my chest. Not because it hurts, but because I’m so fucking aware of him, it feels like he’s all I can sense.
“Not bad,” he says, grinning like he’s enjoying every second of this. “But I think you can hit me harder.”
I grit my teeth and try again. This time I read his feint perfectly, skating backward, cutting him off near the blue line. He spins, trying to keep the puck, and we collide chest-to-chest, our momentum locking us together for a second too long.
Heat sparks under my skin.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Keep looking at me like that, and the guys really will start talking if they see it.”
“I’m looking at the puck,” I snap, even though we both know that’s a lie.
We reset for another rush. My legs are burning, but adrenaline keeps me sharp. He charges again, faster this time, and I go to block him. My skate slips on a shallow groove in the ice, and suddenly he’s got a hand on my hip, steadying me before I eat it.
My breath catches. He doesn’t move his hand right away.
“Easy,” he says softly, almost like he’s enjoying the fact that I’m off-balance in more ways than one.
I jerk away, gripping my stick tighter. “Run it again.”
He just smirks, backing up for another go, and I know I’m in trouble. Because the more we collide on the ice, the more I can’t tell if I want to check him into the boards…or pull him closer.
By the time Coach comes out of his office and calls it, my legs are on fire, my shirt is plastered to my back, and my brain feels like it’s short-circuited.
Logan and I skate off together, both breathing hard.
He peels his beanie off, raking a hand through dark, damp hair, and I have to look away fast before my thoughts wander somewhere I don’t want them to.
“Good practice, Captain,” he says, like he didn’t just spend an hour knocking me off my axis.
I grunt something that might be “yeah,” tossing my stick onto my rack. I tug my gloves off, and then I make a beeline for the locker room like my life depends on it.
The room is empty, the rest of the team long gone. I toss my gloves into the cubby and then sink onto the bench in front of my cubby, trying to pretend my heart isn’t pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with conditioning.
Of course, that’s when Logan strolls in.
His t-shirt is clinging in all the wrong—or right—places. He drops onto his seat in front of his cubby, stretching his long legs out.
“Not bad today,” he says. “You almost knocked me on my ass twice.”
“Almost,” I mutter, yanking at my skates. My fingers fumble with the laces.
He notices. His grin turns slow and knowing. “You always this jumpy in the locker room, Shaw?”
I glare. “I’m not jumpy.”
“You’re…something,” he says, angling his body toward me, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His voice drops just enough to make my pulse jump again. “But I like skating with you. We’re good together.”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about hockey anymore.
I grab my towel like it’s a shield and stand abruptly. “I’m hitting the showers.”