Chapter 8 Logan
EIGHT
LOGAN
My phone buzzes on the nightstand again.
I don’t even have to check to know who it is. NoNamesNeeded. He’s been messaging all week.
Dirty. Bold. Sometimes flustered. Always eager.
I smirk and roll onto my back, grabbing the phone and thumbing open the screen. Another message lights up.
NoNamesNeeded: I’m gonna be thinking about your mouth all damn day. Is that what you want?
My grin widens.
Hell yeah it is.
We’ve been texting nonstop since Monday night. After that first exchange, he couldn’t stop. Neither could I. He’s anonymous, DL, and exactly the kind of distraction I didn’t know I needed—especially with Captain Repressed constantly trying not to eye-fuck me in the locker room.
I scroll back through the messages, just to remind myself how wild it's gotten. The kind of messages I should probably delete. But don’t.
Me: If you’re still sore when you show up tonight, I’ll know you followed my instructions last night.
NoNamesNeeded: I might’ve already come twice. Doesn’t mean I won’t come again.
Yeah. He says shit like that now. And I fucking love it.
Me: You still want your mouth used first? Or do I fuck you open the second you walk through my door?
NoNamesNeeded: Both.
Whatever you want.
God. That’s the thing about him.
He wants to give it up. To let go. I can feel it in every message—the way he responds to control, the way he begs for it without ever saying the word.
And yeah, I know it’s probably a bad idea. Could be anyone behind that profile. Could be some frat guy looking to get his kicks and ghost me. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But something about him feels real.
There’s this tension in his words, like he’s crawling out of his own skin every time he types. I know what that feels like. I’ve lived that in high school. Which is probably why I haven’t shut it down. Why I’ve kept replying.
Why I can’t stop imagining him.
Whoever he is.
Hot. DL. Local. Lives on campus, so definitely a student. But that’s fine.
He said my off-campus apartment made him feel better. Safer. Not that I need to impress a random hookup, but I did clean the place last night.
Not because I care what he thinks. Just… basic respect.
And maybe a little bit because I’m curious. What if he walks in, and it’s someone I do know?
What if he walks in, and I want to keep him around?
I shake the thought off. I don’t do relationships. That’s not what this is.
It’s release. It’s control. It’s getting a taste of something I’ve craved since the season started—being in charge of something that’s just for me.
I toss the phone on the bed and stretch, shirt riding up, body already buzzing with anticipation. He’ll be here tonight. Ten o’clock. My place.
And until then?
I've got practice to get through.
And one particular teammate to try to ignore.
Even if I still can’t stop thinking about how Todd looked when I slammed him into the boards—and how he kissed me after.
Yeah.
This whole week has been one long exercise in restraint.
Tonight?
I finally get to stop holding back.
I’m still thinking about him when I lace up my skates.
The guy from the app—not that I even know his name. All I’ve got is a profile, a time, and a promise. But it’s been enough to keep me wired all week, the messages getting filthier, bolder, hotter.
He wants me in control. Wants to be used. Wants to hand himself over for a night and forget the rest of the world, if his messages are any indication.
Let me ride your thigh, slow, until I come…
You tell me when I can touch myself—until then, I don’t.
Tie my hands, hold me down, make me beg, and forget my own name.
Yeah. I can give him that.
“Hey.” A familiar voice drags me out of the fog.
I glance up and find Todd already at center ice, tapping his stick against the ice and giving me that expectant look like I’m late.
I shake it off, dragging my ass onto the rink.
He’s practically vibrating this morning.
Not in a hyper way—just this… barely-contained energy in the way he moves, the way he skates, like he’s got something to look forward to, and it’s making him a little more reckless than usual.
Not that I mind.
“Someone eat a whole box of Wheaties for breakfast?” I ask, skating up beside him, trying to keep the edge of amusement in my tone from dipping into something else.
He shrugs, but there’s a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Just ready to work.”
Bullshit.
He’s amped about something, and it sure as hell isn’t drills. He’s not this lively on a good day—definitely not when paired with me.
But today? He’s locked in. Dialed up to eleven. Not looking at me too much, but not avoiding me either. There’s a rhythm in the way we pass the puck back and forth that’s almost too smooth.
Too easy.
And I hate how much I notice it. How much I notice him.
The way sweat clings to the back of his neck under his hoodie. The way he keeps licking his bottom lip like it’s dry—like he’s nervous about something but trying to play it cool.
I toss the puck back to him. “You’re gonna burn a hole in the ice if you keep skating like that.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then get out of the way.”
Cocky bastard. God help me, I love when he’s like this.
Still, something about him is off today, even beneath the swagger. There’s a buzz under his skin, like he’s counting down to something.
Whatever it is…It’s got him amped. And it’s got me watching him more than I should.
Especially when he leans down to adjust his laces, the back of his hoodie riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin. A trail of muscle. And suddenly I’m picturing my mystery guy bent over the same way, begging for more.
Fuck.
I skate away before I get caught staring.
“Hey, you good?” he calls after me.
I throw him a smirk over my shoulder. “Good as ever, Shaw.”
But I’m already counting down the hours until tonight when I can hopefully get him out of my head. At least for a few hours.
The knock comes at exactly 10:02.
Not that I was watching the clock like a psychopath or anything.
I stay still for a second, phone in hand, pretending I’m not already halfway hard just from anticipation.
The last few nights of messaging had been…
intense. The guy on the other end—NoNamesNeeded—might’ve started off all “quick and discreet,” but once I got him talking, he’d unraveled like a gift-wrapped fantasy.
Shy. Curious. A little mouthy, but mostly eager.
Exactly the kind of guy who needed someone to take control.
Exactly the kind of guy I love wrecking.
I glance toward the door, but I don’t move. Not yet. I like the tension, the pause. I let him knock again—short, clipped, almost nervous—and then I finally drag myself off the couch.
Two steps to the door.
One deep breath.
I check the peephole…and everything in me stutters.
No. Fucking. Way.
Todd.
Star player. Captain. Guy I’ve been fantasizing about for years, even when I told myself I didn’t want him.
He’s standing outside my apartment in a hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets like he’s considering turning around and bolting. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are hunched. He keeps glancing down the hall like he’s afraid of being seen.
Well. That explains the “DL-friendly” part.
My first instinct is to laugh. My second is to not open the door. This could be very bad.
He has no idea it’s me. None. I could ghost him right now and save us both a world of awkwardness.
But I don’t.
I unlock the door and pull it open in one smooth motion, leaning against the frame like I’ve been expecting him—because I have.
Todd startles.
His eyes go wide, then narrow, his whole body going stiff as a fucking board. “Shit,” he breathes, glancing down the hall again.
I lift one brow. “Not exactly what you were expecting?”
He tries to recover—poorly. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I was looking for—uh, a friend’s place. Must’ve gotten the address wrong.” He starts to back away, but I don’t move. I just keep looking at him.
He won’t meet my eyes.
“Friend’s place?” I echo, voice dry. “At exactly 10PM on a Friday night…looking like you’d rather crawl into the floor than be seen standing here?”
Todd stiffens, eyes flicking down the hall again.
“I gotta say,” I add, “your timing is impeccable. Right when NoNamesNeeded said he’d show up.”
His jaw ticks.
“Unless I’ve got another repressed jock on their way.”
Still nothing.
So I step in closer—just a breath away—and drop my voice. “You really didn’t know, did you?”
His throat bobs, the way it does when he’s nervous or trying not to say something he’ll regret. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, backing up a half step.
“Maybe.” I rest back against the doorframe. “But you’re still standing here.”
His eyes flash to mine, finally meeting my gaze—and it hits him. Really hits. The guy he’s been texting. The dirty fantasies. The late-night chats. All of it. Me.
“You’re…” he starts, then swallows it down.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m SlowBurn69.”
His ears go red.
I open the door a little wider. “So what’s it gonna be, Captain? You running scared or coming inside?”