Chapter 5
FIVE
TODD
Logan sinks another shot. The ping-pong ball arcs perfectly over the table and drops into the last red cup with a satisfying splash.
The living room erupts with cheers.
Daniel throws his hands up like they just scored the winning goal at Nationals. “Let’s go!” He spins and grabs Logan in a ridiculous half-hug, half-chest-bump that nearly knocks over the table.
Logan laughs—full and easy—and I feel it in my chest like someone’s twisting a knife.
He looks good like this, all flushed and bright-eyed, a little messy from the heat and noise. And he’s touchable in a way I can’t afford to think about.
I can’t watch this.
I shove my bottle into the trash and slip toward the door, weaving through a knot of girls giggling over selfies.
No one notices me leave. Not that I expect them to with Logan drawing everyone's attention, I'm not the only one that is drawn to him.
It seems like the whole room wants to be in his orbit.
The blast of cool air outside is a relief, brisk enough to cut through the ache under my ribs. I jam my hands in my pockets and head down the sidewalk toward campus, the bass from the party fading with each step.
Maybe if I get to my room and crash, I can forget the way he hesitated before kissing her. Or how it felt like he was still looking at me when he kissed her back.
The door swings open behind me, and I hear my name.
“Todd!”
I freeze. My shoulders tense, but I don’t turn around right away. Because I already know whose voice that is.
I exhale through my nose and turn just enough to see him jogging down the steps, still riding the high of victory. His navy hoodie’s pushed up on his forearms, and his grin is unfairly bright under the porch light.
“Bailing already, Captain?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, shoving my hands deeper in my pockets. “Got an early skate tomorrow.”
Logan tilts his head, that lazy grin softening into something I can’t read. “You didn’t even finish your drink.”
“I wasn’t feeling it.”
“Or maybe…” He steps closer, and the night shrinks around us. “…you didn’t like seeing me have a good time.”
My jaw tightens. “Not everything’s about you, Brooks.”
He laughs under his breath, as though I’ve just confirmed whatever he was fishing for. “Sure, Captain. Keep telling yourself that.”
I start walking, needing space, but his footsteps fall in beside mine. For a guy who just owned beer pong, he’s annoyingly steady.
“You ever just…have fun?” he asks.
“This is me having fun. Leaving before I get a headache.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe me. “You know, I think you’d surprise yourself if you let go once in a while.”
“Not interested.”
He chuckles, low and knowing. “You keep saying that, but the way you look at me on the ice? Or in the locker room? Pretty sure your body’s not on board with the plan.”
My ears burn. “I don’t like guys, and you’re drunk.”
“Not even close.” His voice dips warm and confident, ignoring the first half of my statement. “I just pay attention.”
The sidewalk stretches in front of us, quiet except for our footsteps and the echo of things I can’t let myself say.
I pick up my pace, hoping he’ll get the hint, but Logan matches me stride for stride like we’re tethered.
“You don’t have to walk me home,” I mutter.
“Who said I was walking you home?” His tone is light, teasing. “Maybe I just like the cool fall air.”
“Then go enjoy it somewhere else.”
He laughs softly, the sound curling around me in the dark. “You really hate me that much?”
I stop at the crosswalk, fists tightening in my pockets. The truth catches in my throat, sharp and inconvenient. “I don’t hate you.”
He leans in just enough that I catch the faint scent of his soap, the one that clung to the locker room showers earlier. “Good. I’d hate to think all this chemistry is one-sided.”
My pulse kicks hard enough I swear he can hear it. “You’re imagining things.”
Logan just grins, stepping backward across the street like he’s not afraid of traffic, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Keep lying to yourself.”
I make it to my building first, heart pounding, and I can still feel his gaze on me as I swipe my keycard. Even inside the lobby, warm air washing over me, he’s under my skin.
No amount of cold showers or extra laps at practice is going to scrub that out.
The dorm building is quiet as I head back to my room, the muffled hum of some distant party the only noise bleeding through the walls. My shoes squeak faintly on the linoleum as I climb the stairs to my floor, my pulse still refusing to settle.
I tell myself it’s just from the walk. Just the cool air.
It’s not.
I swipe my key and push into my room. My side of the dorm is neat, the way I left it—bed made, gear bag in the corner, a single hoodie tossed on the chair.
Across the room, Peter’s desk is a disaster zone of notebooks and protein bar wrappers.
He’s still out, probably chasing that blonde from his chem class.
I kick off my sneakers and sink onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms over my face.
All I see is Logan. Logan grinning over the rim of his beer pong cup. Logan at the party like he belonged in my space. Logan kissing that waitress—and hesitating, like he knew I was watching.
I groan into my hands and flop backward. My ceiling looks exactly the same as it did this morning, but it feels smaller now, heavier, as though the room is stuffed with all the things I’m not saying.
I grab my phone out of habit, scrolling aimlessly through social media until a new notification pops up in the team group chat:
Daniel: Brooks and I are undefeated. Who’s getting our next round?
There’s a blurry pic attached—Logan with his arm around Daniel’s shoulder, both of them laughing, like the world bends for their fun.
I should close the app. Should toss my phone across the room and call it a night.
Instead, my thumb hovers over Logan’s face, and my stomach flips like I’m falling.
He’s everywhere. In the rink, in my head, in the corner of every photo. And no matter how fast I skate or how far I run, I can’t shake him.
The rink air is sharp enough to sting my lungs, but it’s better than the stuffy party house from last night. Out here, everything’s supposed to be simple—puck, ice, net.
Except Logan glides up beside me like he’s part of the ice itself, a shadow I can’t shake. “Ready to work?” he says, voice easy, like he hasn’t been in my head for twenty-four hours straight.
I grip my stick tighter. “Let’s just get it done.”
He grins, spinning his stick in one hand before dropping into position.
And just like that, he’s in motion—smooth, controlled, dangerous in the way a predator is dangerous.
I track his movements because I have to, but it doesn’t feel like strategy.
It feels like my pulse is wired to him, a low thrum that picks up whenever he’s close.
Coach calls the drill, and we explode into motion.
My skates bite into the ice, the puck sliding between us with sharp clacks.
Logan reads me like he’s known me forever, sliding into perfect position without me needing to call for him.
When he stops hard to pivot, snow sprays against my shins, cold and stinging, and he laughs under his breath.
I try to focus on the rhythm of passing, on my breathing, but he’s impossible to ignore. The flex of his legs as he drives forward. The sharp turn of his shoulders when he cuts across the rink. He plays like he’s performing for someone, like every movement is precise.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air, and we reset for the next run. Logan skates backward, eyes on mine, mouth curved like he knows I’m wound up tighter than my stick tape.
“Nationals,” he says casually, tapping the tip of his stick to the ice. “Think we’re gonna make everybody regret ever lining up against us?”
I grunt something that could be agreement. My chest feels too tight to form real words.
He winks, coasting past to take his place in the next line, leaving me chasing that flicker of heat down my spine I can’t get rid of.
The last whistle blows, and the team trickles off the ice one by one. Logan disappears with Daniel and Eli, joking about post-practice snacks. I stay.
I need the cold, the quiet, the empty rink to settle me down.
I skate drill after drill until my thighs burn and my breath clouds the glass. Finally, Coach steps out of the office with a clipboard in hand.
“Shaw,” he calls, squinting at me. “You live here now?”
I straighten, trying to look casual, even though my lungs are still heaving. “Just…running a few more reps.”
He huffs, shaking his head, but I swear I catch the edge of a smile. “You’ve got a motor, kid, don’t wear it out. I’ve got a staff meeting—lock up when you’re done.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The door thuds behind him, and the rink is mine. I skate one last lazy lap, letting the scrape of my blades echo in the hollow space, before heading to the locker room.
The place is blissfully quiet. No shouting, no snapping towels, no chatter about the party. Just the steady drip of the showers in the distance and the faint smell of rubber, sweat, and soap.
I peel off my pads, muscles protesting, and finally step under the spray. Hot water needles across my shoulders, and I let my head fall forward, trying to wash off the tension that’s been riding me since last night.
I don’t hear him right away.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Logan says, voice easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stroll in after everyone’s gone.
I swallow hard, facing the wall. “Everyone is gone already.”
He laughs under his breath. “Yeah, but you’re here.”
I don’t turn, but I hear every sound—his towel hitting the hook, the soft slide of fabric as he undresses, the muted hiss of water when he claims the shower beside mine.
I tell myself I’m not looking, but my eyes flick anyway. Steam curls around him, clinging to the hard lines of his body. Water streaks over his chest, down the grooves of his stomach. He tilts his head back into the spray, jaw sharp, lips parted.
That subtle shift as he adjusts his stance sends a jolt through me. It looks like he's stroking himself. My gaze drops lower, and I realize he’s just using a washcloth to wash himself.
“You skate like a man possessed,” he says over the water. “Trying to outrun me?”
I huff a laugh that catches in my throat. “Trying to stay ahead of you.”
He hums, a low, satisfied sound. “Good luck with that.”
Steam thickens around us, curling in the air like it knows a secret.
I keep my gaze fixed on the tiles in front of me, but my eyes betray me in the next heartbeat.
I flick a glance sideways—just a quick one—and catch the curve of his shoulder, the way the water runs down his back in rivulets.
The way it moves and bunches like he's hard and stroking himself.
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes drop again.
I openly stare. That's exactly what he's doing, jacking off right next to me. My lips part, and I lick them. And he catches me.
Logan turns his head, slow and deliberate, water dripping from his hair as his gaze hooks into mine. His mouth curves, not quite a smirk—something quieter, sharper.
“See something you like, Captain?”
My stomach drops. My mouth goes dry. “I wasn’t—”
“Sure,” he says softly, like he doesn’t believe me for a second. He tips his head back into the spray again, lazy, letting the water sluice down over every line of muscle. It’s casual. It’s deliberate. And it’s working.
Logan’s gaze holds mine, dark and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me squirm. His lips tilt into something wicked and soft all at once.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs over the rush of water. “You can look if you want.”
The words punch straight through my chest. My fingers twitch against the slick tile. My own dick responding to his words.
“I’m not—” My voice cracks on the lie.
He laughs under his breath, low and knowing, and tips his head back under the spray. Water streaks over his chest, down his chest, dripping from his fingers like he’s in no hurry at all.
“Then don’t,” he says, almost a dare. “But you’re gonna think about it anyway.”
I can’t breathe.
The steam’s too thick, the room too hot, my skin too tight. Logan stands under the spray like some kind of goddamn incubus—water kissing every sharp edge of him, lips parted like he’s savoring the attention. Like he knows I’m unraveling just watching him exist.
I jerk my gaze back to the wall, clenching my jaw so hard it aches.
This is fine. I’m fine. This is just a normal shower, and he’s just a guy. A cocky, aggravating, stupidly magnetic guy, who is absolutely not hard and absolutely not giving me permission to look.
Except he is.
And I did.
And now I can’t stop seeing it—even with my eyes squeezed shut.
The air feels too thick, like I’m drowning in it. My pulse thunders in my ears. I can’t think with him this close, with him doing that next to me like it's a casual Saturday. Like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it doesn’t feel like everything.
I reach blindly for the handle and wrench the water off. It shuts off with a metallic groan, but the heat still clings to my skin like a punishment.
Logan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist hiding my own erection from sight, not daring to glance sideways. I keep my head down, muscles locked, feet moving too fast over the tile. My chest’s tight, lungs burning.
"See you later, Captain," Logan calls, lazy and unbothered, like I didn’t just flee like a guilty teenager caught in the act. And he wasn’t the one jacking off right next to me.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.