Chapter 19
NINETEEN
LOGAN
I’m already sweating under my pads, but that has more to do with the way Todd’s skating than the drills.
It’s scrimmage day—red jerseys vs. white—and he’s on the opposite side of the rink. Exactly where Coach wanted him. Exactly where I don’t want him, because now I have to pretend I’m not imagining all the ways I’m going to pin him later that don’t involve hockey.
He skates past me on the line-up and mutters low enough only I can hear, “Better be ready.”
I smirk. “Always am, Shaw.”
Daniel snorts next to me. “Jesus. Flirt louder, Brooks.”
I toss a wink over my shoulder, for show. “Sorry, was that too subtle for you?”
“Not for me,” Daniel says, deadpan. “Maybe for Coach.”
Coach blows the whistle, and the puck drops.
We’re off.
Todd’s fast—annoyingly so. And he’s playing harder than usual, like he’s trying to make me chase him. He makes a sharp cut past me and fires a shot that pings off the post.
I grin like an idiot. That’s my man. I don’t even fight the thought as it takes hold. Because yeah, he’s mine, even if he doesn’t realize it fully.
God, he looks good out here. Confident, aggressive, stupidly hot with his helmet on and the longer strands of his hair brushing his jersey with his eyes locked on mine like I’m a goal he’s about to score.
I track him like a magnet.
Daniel skates up beside me during a switch out. “I’m impressed.”
I arch a brow. “With what?”
He shrugs. “You really got to him. I’ve never seen him like this. Not since I’ve met him anyway, he’s always serious and focused. Today, he’s…lighter and happier.”
“Maybe he’s just in a good mood.”
Daniel lifts both brows. “Come on. He confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?” I blink at him, all innocence. No way am I letting on that I know what he’s talking about. Absolutely fucking not. Even if he is my friend.
He snorts. “Sure. Okay. You keep your little secret, Romeo.”
I roll my eyes and skate toward the face off circle, but my chest tightens a little.
Because yeah—I am keeping it a secret.
For Todd. For me. For both of us.
It’s not shame or fear. It’s just…ours. And until Todd tells me differently, I’m going to protect the hell out of it.
Even if Daniel is watching me like he already knows.
The puck flies toward our end of the rink, and I dart after it, attempting to squeak past Todd next to the boards to get out of the zone. I’ve got maybe half a second to react before his body slams into mine.
He pins me to the boards with just enough force to make it look real, but not enough to bruise. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make my breath hitch.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
The puck skitters past us, but I barely register it.
Because his shoulder presses into my chest, his weight balanced against mine, and his eyes—fuck, those ice-blue eyes—lock with mine like he’s trying to burn something into me and communicate something silently. The coach blows his whistle, yelling at both of us to break it up.
For a second, he doesn’t blink. His gaze drops, just slightly.
Down to my lips. Back up to my eyes. And there it is—that flare. Blue catching fire.
Want. Hunger. Possession. For me. It’s less than a heartbeat, but it lights me up from the inside out.
I manage a grin, when all I want to do is grab him and kiss him. “Boarding, Captain?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smirk. “You didn’t fall.”
“I could.”
His eyes hold mine for one more beat. And then he shoves off with a muttered, “I’ll try harder next time.”
He’s gone in the next second, skating away like he didn’t just leave me so turned inside out I forget to breathe. The rest of the team is focused on the puck, but I can still feel the echo of him all along my ribs. Still taste the air between us, charged like static.
Good tension.
The kind that says later in all caps.
The kind that says: get through practice.
Then we’ll finish what we started.
By the time I make it to the showers, the room’s already a zoo.
There’s steam everywhere, voices bouncing off tile, and the unmistakable sound of Blue howling with laughter.
“I’m just saying,” Peter insists, standing dead center like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea—with his junk. “The propeller move adds an inch. Maybe two.”
I blink.
Todd’s across the room, towel slung low on his hips, eyes narrowed in warning. But he’s grinning, too, or trying not to.
“Peter,” I say, “are you…hula-hooping your dick?”
He doesn’t even pause, just speeds up the weird hip swirl like he’s trying to generate enough wind to power a small town. “I call it the Takeoff.”
Blue wheezes. “Bro, you’re gonna sprain something.”
“This team is unhinged,” Daniel mutters beside me, tossing his towel over a hook. “Also, Peter’s right. Cold water’s a bitch.”
And that’s all it takes. Suddenly half the guys are in on it—hips circling, water flinging from their tips, shampoo bottles rattling like it’s an earthquake of idiocy. Someone’s chanting “Clear the runway,” and I’m pretty sure Eli’s about to eat shit trying to spin in place.
“Jesus,” I mutter, stepping around Daniel, who’s standing there like he’s above it all—except he’s absolutely not.
“You’re all basic,” Daniel says, smirking. “Mine sparkles, you should all get piercings. Yours just flap around like uncooked linguine.”
“I’m begging you never to say ‘linguine’ in here again,” Todd deadpans, and I swear he almost catches my eye before looking away.
I step under the far shower head, letting the hot water hit the back of my neck. I close my eyes for half a second—half a second of peace—
Someone slips. There’s a crash. Laughter explodes again.
So much for peace. But somehow, I’m grinning too.
Welcome to the circus.
Eventually, the water runs cold and the guys tire themselves out—more from laughing than any actual hygiene routine. One by one, they file out of the showers, still dripping, still grinning, still tossing off jokes like we didn’t just witness Peter try to helicopter himself into the ER.
By the time I’m back at my locker, the air’s cooled, but the energy hasn’t. Everyone’s loud, still half-naked and half-dressed, deodorant flying, towels snapping, dirty socks being stolen and launched like grenades. I towel off, trying to tune most of it out—but not too much.
I’ve played on a dozen teams, but this locker room? It’s loud and dumb and weirdly… good. Home, in a way that makes my chest ache if I think too hard about it.
Across the room, Todd’s pulling on a hoodie over his damp hair, eyes flicking up when Daniel calls out.
“Frat party at Mason’s tonight. You guys in?”
Blue whoops, still shirtless and combing his curly hair with his fingers like it’ll help. “Hell yeah, I heard they got a beer luge.”
Peter perks up from where he’s tying his shoes. “Do I have to wear a shirt this time?”
“Yes,” three people answer in unison.
Daniel shrugs into his jacket. “I’m going. Could use a night to blow off steam.”
Todd finishes pulling on his socks and shoves his feet into his boots. “I’m good. Gonna stay in tonight.”
And just like that, my decision’s made.
“I’m out too,” I say, straightening from the bench. “Got some stuff to do.”
I catch the flicker of surprise in Daniel’s eyes as he zips his hoodie. And there it is. He doesn’t say anything—but he doesn’t need to. The look is enough. He’s not dumb.
Todd doesn’t even glance my way. But I notice the way his shoulders shift, just a little.
It’s nothing. Just a regular night, turning into something that feels like anything but.
I grab my bag, say my goodbyes, and head for the door.
By the time I hit the parking lot, the sun’s dipping low and the breeze has that perfect fall edge. I slide into the driver’s seat of my Jeep, fingers drumming the wheel.
Then I pull out my phone and open Prism.
Me: Hope your “staying in” plans include ending up in my bed. Again.
I don’t wait for a reply before I pull out of the parking lot and head back to my place. He knows where I live, and we probably shouldn’t make a habit of being together right after practice if we are going to keep this a secret.