Chapter 11 Todd
ELEVEN
TODD
I wake to warm breath ghosting over the side of my neck, a heavy arm slung across my back, and a muscular chest pressed against mine like we’re puzzle pieces that never meant to fit—but somehow do anyway.
Fuck.
My eyes blink open slowly, hazy with sleep and…yeah. Regret. Definitely that too.
Except…the regret isn’t for what we did.
It’s for how easy it felt to fall asleep wrapped around him like this.
My bare skin is sticking to his in places that should not be touching, especially not when the sun’s coming up, and I have to face the real world again.
And my sweats and boxers? Still tangled around my ankles like I passed out before getting redressed.
Which, yeah—checks out. Because Logan wrecked me last night. In every possible way.
And now I’m sprawled on top of him like some desperate, clingy—
I freeze.
Because when I look down…
Goddamn.
He’s unreal.
Even like this—mouth slightly parted, chest rising slow and steady beneath me, long lashes resting against his cheeks—he looks like a Greek fucking god.
And not just the hot ones from the movies.
The ones sculptors went crazy trying to capture, with abs carved from stone and those stupidly perfect lips that make you want to kiss them just to see if they taste like sin.
I should not be thinking this.
My dick has other ideas.
Fantastic.
I shift slowly, carefully, trying to get my legs untangled from his without waking him. My breath catches when he shifts in his sleep and tightens his grip around my waist like his body knows I’m trying to escape.
It takes a full two minutes to pry his hand off me without losing my balance.
Another thirty seconds to slide off his chest without waking him.
And I swear the air in the room changes when I finally stand—and even the universe is holding its breath to see if I’ll make it out before everything goes to hell.
I tug my boxers up first, then yank my sweats up over them, adjusting myself quickly and facing away from the couch just in case Logan wakes up and—
“Running already?”
His voice is low. Rough. Sleep-filled in a way that shouldn’t make me feel things but does.
I freeze halfway through tugging my shirt over my head, the fabric stuck around my arms and shoulders like a trap.
Shit.
“No,” I lie, forcing the shirt down and turning around slowly. “Just…getting dressed.”
Logan’s awake now—definitely awake—propped on one elbow, eyes heavy-lidded and smug, like he knew I’d try to ghost and beat him to the punch by leaving while he was asleep.
His chest catches the sunlight shining in from his window.
I run my gaze over the dusting of hair that sort of makes a T on his chest, circling his nipples and running down his abdomen to meet up with his happy trail.
The dark hair is soft. I know, because I’ve run my hands over it. My fingers itch to touch him now.
His hair is a mess.
His cheeks are pink from sleep.
And his smirk?
Fucking lethal.
“Good,” he says, voice still gravel-edged. “Because I’d hate to think last night was a one-time thing.”
My stomach drops. And my heart kicks up.
Because I want it to be a one-time thing.
Don’t I?
…Don’t I?
Falling asleep in his arms was not part of the plan. Hell, sleeping with Logan was not in the plan, but here I am.
I should say something.
Should laugh it off. Shrug. Brush it under the rug as though this is just a Friday night mistake I won’t be repeating.
But Logan sits up on the couch, his abs flexing under the golden spill of morning light, and all I can do is stare.
His smirk fades, just a little. Not gone—but edged with something I don’t want to look too closely at. Something that feels too real.
“So?” he asks, cocking his head like he’s trying to read me. “Are we pretending last night didn’t happen, or…?”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come.
Because no matter how badly I want to pretend—the kisses, the touches, the way he whispered in my ear like I was something he wanted as he moved inside of me—none of it feels fake now. It’s too real. Too close. Too good.
What I agreed to last night feels impossible now. As if this would stay a secret if we continued. We skate together every day, some of the time just the two of us, so there’s no way it would stay a secret. That’s wishful thinking and probably a really bad idea to even entertain.
I take a breath. Then another.
“I should go,” I say instead, grabbing my hoodie from the arm of the couch and not quite meeting his eyes.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Logan leans back, stretching lazily, like none of this rattles him in the slightest. As if he isn’t watching my every move and filing it away behind that smug little smile.
“You know where to find me,” he says, voice soft and even. “On the app.”
He says it like he’s issuing a dare. And he already knows I’ll be back.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering. Just tug the hoodie on and zip it up, swipe my phone from the side table, and force myself to walk to the door without looking back.
But my hand hesitates on the handle.
Not long. Just a second.
Long enough for me to hear the faint rustle of Logan shifting behind me. Long enough to wonder if he’s waiting for me to turn around.
I don’t.
Because if I do?
I’m not sure I’ll leave. And staying is a bad fucking idea. It goes against all of my plans. Plans that seem pointless right now, but that just means I’m thinking with the wrong head. I don’t want the scouts to pick me because I’m gay, I want them to pick me because I can play.
I keep my head down as I walk back to campus.
The early morning air is sharp and cool, the kind that should clear your head. But mine’s a mess. Every step I take, I’m just dragging Logan with me.
The feel of him leaking out of my ass with every step.
The sound of him.
The way he kissed me as if he already knew I was his to ruin. And yeah, he ruined me a little last night.
I keep replaying the way his voice dipped when he told me to be a good boy. The way his hands moved over my skin like he’d done it a thousand times before.
And I let him.
Worse—I liked it. I wanted it. I still want it.
Fuck.
I swipe my keycard and slip back into the dorm building. Everything’s quiet this early—only a few people moving around, none of them paying me any attention. I take the stairs two at a time, hoodie up, head low.
By the time I open the door to my room, Peter’s just rolling over in bed. His hair’s a tangled mess, and he’s squinting at me through one open eye.
“You didn’t come back last night,” he mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep. “You get lucky or something?”
I freeze halfway through stepping inside.
He yawns and adds, “Was it that girl from psych? The one with the glasses and the notebook that’s always color-coded? Honestly, good for you if it was—she’s hot in that, like, sexy librarian way.”
I blink at him.
Then shake my head, forcing out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Peter groans and flops back on his pillow. “Man, I knew it. You were weird yesterday, all twitchy and half-zoned out. That’s classic I’m about to get laid energy.”
I roll my eyes and toss my phone on the desk. “Well, good to know I get all ‘twitchy’ when I’m trying to be subtle.”
“Dude, you give off twitchy all the time.”
I grunt and kick off my shoes, grabbing my towel and heading toward the bathroom. I need a shower. A long one. Cold, probably. One that might reset my fucking brain.
Behind me, Peter calls out, “Hey, if you ever wanna double date or something, let me know! You know, hetero solidarity! What with Daniel, Eli, the Grinch, and Logan always hanging around. I feel like we’re out numbered now, man.”
I nearly trip over my own feet.
I manage a noise that sounds like a laugh and a cough had a baby and then shut the bathroom door behind me before I say something I’ll regret.
Because Peter doesn’t know. He can’t know that he just sounded just like my father would making one of his stupid jokes that aren’t very funny. It’s just another one of my reasons to keep it quiet.
The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind me, I brace my hands on the sink and stare into the mirror.
I look like shit.
Hair wild. Eyes tired. Hoodie wrinkled. And underneath all of that? The same shit that's been following me since I kissed Logan on the ice.
Since I showed up at his apartment like some anonymous stranger and let him…Fuck. What I would probably let him do again.
I turn on the shower as hot as it’ll go. The idea of a cold shower now is not appealing in the least. Maybe I can scald him off my skin.
Steam curls up around me fast, fogging the mirror, chasing the chill from my skin. But it doesn’t touch the cold knot still coiled tight in my stomach. The knot of what I did. What I let happen. What I wanted.
I strip off the hoodie, my shirt, the sweats that just remind me of how I woke up. My boxers are damp from my constant hard on this morning in a way that reminds me too much of Logan’s mouth, and my knees almost buckle.
I step into the water before I can think too hard. Let it pour over me.
Burn it away.
Scrub it off.
Except it doesn’t work like that.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the tile. And all I can see is him—Logan—grinning like the devil, mouthing off, taking control in a way that made me melt from the inside out.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t need it. But I do, and I’m already hard. Already aching for release.
Already remembering.
The way he looked at me like I was his. The drag of his fingers down my stomach. The heat in his voice when he called me baby right before—
“Fuck,” I mutter, wrapping a hand around myself and pumping slow, like I can keep this clinical. Like it’s just about release. Just about moving on.
It isn’t.
It never fucking is with him.
My hand moves faster. I bite down on a moan. Chase the memory of his mouth on mine. His voice in my ear. The sting of his teeth. The press of his body.
The words he said…
“You’re such a good fucking boy. My fucking boy.”
That’s all it takes.
I come hard, forehead still pressed to the tile, knees damn near giving out. It’s messy and fast and way too real. But for a second—just one—I feel… better. Like I can breathe again.
Like maybe I can make it through the day without combusting.
Without giving everything away.
I rinse off, force my body to relax, and shut the water off with a sharp twist.
Back to reality. Back to practice. Back to pretending Logan Brooks is just a teammate.
And not the reason I’m losing my damn mind.