Chapter 22 Todd
TWENTY-TWO
TODD
The past few days have felt…easy.
Not like everything’s fixed or simple—because it’s not.
I’m still figuring things out, still keeping my head down around certain people, still avoiding mirrors when I think too hard.
But Logan’s been this quiet, steady hum beneath all of it.
Like background music to my week that makes everything sound better.
I don’t sleep over every night, but when I do, I wake up with his hand tangled in mine or his chest pressed to my back, warm and solid, and everything.
We drink coffee in our boxers. Steal kisses all morning long.
Share bites of cereal over the counter like some messed-up domestic sitcom that I’m one hundred percent addicted to.
It’s stupid how happy I’ve been.
Practice is brutal today—Coach makes us run line drills after our scrimmage like we pissed in his coffee—but I don’t even care. Logan’s grin when we worked together to block Blue’s shot gets me through it. Even if he teases me later for letting Daniel score, and I don’t bother denying it.
After the final whistle, we all gather near the benches, sticks propped against the boards, helmets off, steam rising from sweaty heads.
Coach claps his hands. “Tomorrow morning, we will leave for our away game. Ohio. It’s a big one. They’ve been up all season.”
Groans ripple through the team.
He doesn’t flinch. “Bus leaves at 6:45 a.m. sharp. I want you here by 6:30. That means gear ready, water bottles filled, and no, Starling, you can’t Uber there in your pajamas.”
Peter raises a hand. “What if I sleep in my gear?”
“Then you’ll smell like a locker room before we even get there. Don’t test me.”
There’s laughter, but Coach is still giving us that look—the one that says he’s serious. Be there or get yourself to Ohio. He doesn’t say it, but it’s clear as day.
“You miss the bus, get yourselves there, or you’ll miss the game,” he adds, already walking away. “And no more naked hula-hooping in the showers. We’re not in middle school.”
Blue barks out a laugh. “Okay, but I was winning.”
“You had a negative swing,” Peter fires back. “My grandma’s got more torque.”
“Your grandma’s seen your dick?”
I tune them out.
Logan’s moving toward the bench, hair a sweaty mess, that smirk aimed in my direction like a heat-seeking missile.
I catch up to him, pretending like I’m just racking my stick. “Think you’ll actually make the bus on time, Brooks?”
“I’m never late, Captain.”
I hum, my gaze dipping to his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him in public?
The butterflies in my stomach start to stir, fluttering hard. But I don’t move. Just lean back against the railing as the rest of the team filters toward the locker room.
“Extra practice tonight?” I ask. I like our alone time on the ice. The fact that it’s gotten a little heated a few times has nothing to do with it.
He shrugs and takes a long drink from his water bottle. “Don’t want to tire you out for our game.”
Disappointment filters through me, and I try to squash it. It’s not like he’s rejecting me. He’s just… maybe busy or something.
I swallow, glancing out toward the rink. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re probably busy.”
God, why did I just sound like a disappointed chick?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I push off the railing like I didn’t just have a minor emotional spiral and jerk my chin toward the exit. “See you on the bus, Brooks.”
Logan tosses his towel over his shoulder, still smiling, none the wiser. “Looking forward to it, Shaw.”
I nod—too fast, probably—and turn toward the tunnel, falling into step behind a few of the guys. My shoulders roll back as I try to shake it off. Be normal. Be fine.
He didn’t say no. It wasn’t a rejection. We’re not…anything. Not really. Just a secret relationship that we haven’t even labeled. We could just be fucking for all I know about relationships.
So why does it feel like something in my chest just went a little quiet?
I shove it down and push into the locker room, voice pitching light as I catch Peter complaining about how his legs feel after being on a bus for hours and share a joke with Blue about bunking in sketchy motels.
Normal. Easy.
Just a game tomorrow.
Just another day.
Just a guy I can’t stop thinking about who might not be thinking about me the same way.
No big deal. Right?
By the time I’m back in my dorm, the sun’s already started its slow crawl behind the buildings outside. I hate that the sun sets at 5:30 in the evening at this time of year. It’s depressing. The room’s quiet except for the occasional muffled voice from the hall and the low hum of the fridge.
I toss my backpack on the floor and collapse onto my bed, one arm flung over my face.
God.
Why am I acting like this? Why can’t I shake this feeling?
One offhand comment and I’m spiraling like a teenage girl with a crush. Because that’s what this feels like, right? A crush. A ridiculous, all-consuming, body-tingling, brain-melting crush.
And it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t say no. He didn’t blow me off. He just said he didn’t want to wear me out before a game. Logical. Responsible. Exactly the kind of thing I should’ve said.
But that flicker of disappointment in my chest? That little pit of something I don’t want to name?
Yeah. Still there. Lunch, two classes, and a study group later and I can’t get rid of it.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and open Prism without even thinking. Our messages are right there at the top.
Of course they are. I never even thought about messaging someone else.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Me: You busy?
Delete.
Me: Just wanted to say good luck tomorrow.
Delete.
Me: If you want some company tonight…I’m free.
I pause, staring at that one. It’s casual. Easy. Flirty without being desperate. But I don’t send it.
Not yet.
Because what if it sounds like I’m trying too hard? What if it makes me look like I care too much?
Which I do. Obviously. But he doesn’t need to know that.
Not when we haven’t even figured out what this is. Hell, not when I haven’t figured out what this is.
I toss the phone beside me and scrub a hand through my hair. The ceiling fan clicks softly overhead, the same rhythm it always does, like it’s mocking me.
I know I’ll see him in the morning. That we’ll sit near each other on the bus, probably end up tangled in a hotel bed by tomorrow night if I can get Coach to put me in the same room as him.
So why do I want to talk to him now?
Why do I feel like something shifted between us today and I didn’t even see it coming?
I blow out a breath and grab my pillow, pulling it over my face like that’ll muffle the ache crawling up my chest.
I don’t message him.
Not tonight.
But I fall asleep with my phone in my hand anyway.