Chapter 6 Logan
SIX
LOGAN
The rink is quiet in a way it never is during team practices—just the sound of our skates carving into the ice and the occasional thud of the puck against the boards. No shouting, no coach barking plays. Just Todd and me. Alone.
Which is exactly how I like it.
We're in street clothes, just gloves and sticks, no pads. It feels casual on the surface, but the tension is anything but. I flick the puck between my skates and dart past him, laughing when he spins and cuts me off.
“Don’t get cocky, Brooks,” he mutters, breathing hard.
I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Shaw.”
He lunges for the puck, and I pivot sharply, trying to slide around him, but he hooks his stick just enough to throw me off.
I slam into the boards—not hard, but enough to feel it.
Before I can push off, he’s right there, pinning me with his body, stick trapped between us, breath fanning hot across my cheek.
For a second, we’re frozen like that. Too close. Too aware.
“You done showboating?” he growls.
My lips part, breath coming fast. “You this rough with all your partners?”
His eyes flash, jaw clenching.
There it is, the annoyance I’m starting to crave.
I lean in just enough to taunt him. “If you wanted me against the boards, all you had to do was ask.”
His whole body tenses, like he doesn’t know whether to shove me harder or back off completely. He’s breathing hard, eyes dark in a way that makes my pulse trip.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
And suddenly, I’m not sure which one of us is going to crack first.
Blood rushes to my dick, and I can see it in his face the second he feels it, because his eyes drop down as if he can see my crotch while pressed against me. They are wide and shocked as he drags them back up to my face. But he doesn’t move back immediately, which is…interesting.
I swipe my tongue over my lower lip, and he tracks the movement. Fuck me. There is something about this guy that does it for me. Always has been, even back in high school.
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes. The air between us crackles—too close, too charged—and then something flickers across his face. Realization. Panic.
Todd jerks back like he’s been burned, his gloves scraping against the boards as he puts space between us. “We’re done,” he mutters, voice rougher than it should be.
I let out a slow breath, forcing a grin, even though my pulse is still hammering. “Didn’t know we’d started anything.”
He shoots me a look that could cut glass. “Don’t.”
The single word lands harder than a hit on the ice. His chest rises and falls fast, and he won’t quite meet my eyes.
I skate backward a few feet, giving him the distance he clearly needs, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “Relax. It’s called chemistry. We’ve got it on the ice. Don’t freak out about it.”
He huffs, half a laugh, half disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
“Thanks,” I say lightly, but the sound of my voice feels too thin.
He grabs his stick and turns toward the benches, muttering something under his breath. I don’t catch the words, but I catch the tension in his shoulders—the way he’s trying too hard to keep it together.
I stay where I am, watching the distance stretch between us, the echo of his body still burning against mine.
Yeah. We’ve got chemistry all right. And it might just wreck both of us.
The days blur together in a rhythm that should feel routine by now—team practices in the morning, classes in the afternoon, and a return to the rink each night. Just the two of us.
And this tension.
Unspoken, electric, and thick enough to cut with a skate blade.
It coils tighter with every drop pass, every clipped word, every accidental brush of skin.
Todd pretends it isn’t there, keeps his tone professional, keeps his hands steady—but I see the cracks.
I feel them in the way his eyes linger a beat too long, in the way he always finds some reason to back off the second things get too close.
And still, we keep skating. Shooting. Sparring.
Each night, it builds—this quiet pressure between us—until I’m sure it’s going to combust. One wrong move and the whole thing will blow wide open.
I’m not sure if that’s what I want.
Or if I’m just daring him to be the one who breaks first.
It’s almost nine by the time we make it back to the ice. The rink’s officially closed, lights half-dimmed, the hum of the refrigeration system louder in the quiet. It’s just us—again.
Todd flips the puck up with the toe of his stick, catching it midair and dropping it onto the ice with a practiced tap. He doesn’t say a word, just skates a slow circle while I tug on my gloves and flex my fingers.
We don’t wear pads for these. No jerseys either. Just hoodies and sweatpants, like it’s not the most intense part of my day.
“You wanna run corners?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Todd just nods, tossing the puck toward the boards.
We fall into rhythm easily. Too easily. Like our bodies remember something we’re both pretending never happened. The scrape of skates, the snap of passes, the sharp click when the puck meets the boards—it fills the silence. Until it doesn’t.
I cut across the ice, beating him to the corner, and when he catches up, he’s right there—hip to hip, shoulder to chest, pinning me into the boards with a force that has nothing to do with hockey.
The puck spins off toward the blue line, forgotten.
His breath fans hot across my cheek. One hand still on his stick, the other pressed flat to my ribs.
“You gonna let me go, Captain?” I ask. “Or do you like the feel of my body against yours?”
His grip tightens. Just a fraction.
“Maybe you should stop mouthing off,” he mutters.
I lean in slightly, grinning. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”
His entire body goes tense.
We’re so close I can feel it—the moment he thinks about backing off. The moment he doesn’t.
Instead, he stays exactly where he is, like stepping back would be worse.
I don't move either.
My grin lingers. My pulse hammers.
And, for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. But then, like someone flipped a switch, he pushes back.
He doesn’t say a word as he skates off toward center ice.
I let him go.
But I’m smiling the whole way back to the puck.
He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drill.
Not that we’re really doing drills anymore. It’s just movement now—gliding up and down the ice, checking each other harder than necessary, snapping passes too hard to catch. Every shift carries a bite. A dare.
I trail him on a turn, then take the puck and skate backward with a smirk. “C’mon, Shaw. That all you got?”
His eyes narrow.
Good.
I don’t know what I want exactly—maybe just to see him crack. Maybe to watch that mask he always wears slip for good. Either way, I keep pushing.
I flick the puck between his skates and dart around him with a grin, breath puffing in the cold air. “You keep letting me score like this, and I’m gonna start thinking you like it.”
That does it.
He’s on me in half a heartbeat.
I barely register the slam of his body into mine, the hard shove that rattles through my chest as my back hits the boards with a solid crack. I let out a sharp breath, stick clattering to the ice, heart skidding into my throat—
—and then he kisses me.
No warning. No lead-up. Just a brutal press of lips, all heat and fury and want. His hands grip my hoodie, yanking me forward like he’s waited weeks for this exact moment. His mouth is demanding, consuming, like he’s starving, and I’m the only thing on the menu.
I make a noise—something low, involuntary—and grab the front of his sweatshirt, anchoring myself. The kiss deepens, tilting, and for a second, I swear the world tilts, too.
My head spins.
Everything narrows to the press of his chest, the drag of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth. He kisses like he plays—controlled chaos, sharp angles, no space to breathe.
And I don’t want to breathe.
I want more.
But just as fast as it started, it’s over.
He pulls back, lips parted, eyes wild like he doesn’t recognize what he just did. His breath hitches, and then he skates away without a word—just turns and glides down the ice, leaving me against the boards like a goddamn ghost.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
My fingers are still clenched in the air where his hoodie used to be. My lips are swollen. My pulse is everywhere.
Holy. Shit.
I’m speechless.
For once in my entire damn life… I have nothing to say.