Chapter 24 Todd
TWENTY-FOUR
TODD
Something loosens in my chest. Just unknots, like a fist unclenching after holding on too long.
I was wrong yesterday. Logan’s not pulling away. He’s still here. Still him. Still ours—whatever the hell that means right now.
And the way he’s looking at me?
Yeah, I’m a goner.
A stupid smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I let out a quiet breath and murmur, “Is this your way of saying you’re clingy outside of your apartment, too?”
Logan swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and intentional, his eyes dropping to my mouth and then dragging back up to meet mine.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “And possessive, before you ask.”
Heat curls in my stomach.
I try to play it cool, but I think my smile betrays me. “Good to know.”
He moves to my side and steps a little closer, and I don’t move away. My pulse kicks up, but not from nerves this time. From something steadier. Something solid.
Want.
Wanting him.
I tip my head slightly, teasing. “You planning on staking your claim right now, Brooks?”
His grin goes wicked. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“If you think you could still skate straight if I did.”
A laugh slips out of me—quiet and a little breathless. “Is that a challenge?”
He shrugs one shoulder, all that easy, infuriating confidence wrapped up in a single movement. “You tell me, Captain.”
I take a step closer, closing the space between us until there’s nothing left but heat and possibility. “Pretty cocky for someone who was whining about cuddles two nights ago.”
“Was not,” he says, but his voice dips low, his mouth so close I can feel the words against my lips. “I was purring. There’s a difference.”
I snort. “You’re an idiot.”
He smirks. “I’m pretty sure you like it.”
Before I can reply, his hand slides to the back of my neck, and he kisses me—slow and confident, as if he’s got all the time in the world to prove his point.
I melt into it without hesitation, lips parting under his, my fingers fisting in the front of his hoodie as I pull him closer. There’s nothing frantic about it, nothing rushed. Just him and us. The kind of kiss that sinks into your skin and stays there.
But then—
Knock knock knock.
We freeze.
A muffled voice filters through the door. “Time to head to the rink. Let’s go, boys.”
Logan groans against my mouth. “Terrible timing.”
I grin and step back, breathing a little uneven. “You’ll live.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause I was definitely about to die happy.”
I shake my head, still smiling as I step away from him. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go win a game.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Romeo, huh?”
I roll my eyes and nudge his shoe with my foot on my way past it. “You probably should have left your shoes on.”
He hums. “I thought I had more time. And they are going to have to wait for me, because if I go out into that hallway right now, everyone will know how hard you make me.” He palms himself as he settles on the edge of the bed, and I wish we had time to take care of that.
I drag my eyes down to where his hand presses between his thighs, and yeah—fuck. I want to drop to my knees right here and make him forget there’s a team waiting downstairs. Make him miss the bus. Miss the damn game.
But I force myself to keep moving.
“Guess you’ll just have to suffer,” I say.
Logan tilts his head, eyes dark and amused. “You saying I can’t control myself?”
“I’m saying I don’t think you want to.”
His laugh is low and wicked. “Not even a little.”
I pause in the doorway. “Five minutes. Tops. Then you better be downstairs.”
He flops back dramatically on the bed, arm thrown over his eyes. “Cruel. You are cruel, Shaw.”
“Motivational,” I correct, smirking. “Now get your shoes on before I come over there and make it worse.”
His eyes peek open, glinting. “Promises, promises.”
I roll my eyes again and walk out—only because I have to. Not because I want to. Because I’m already thinking about what might happen when we get back.
We’re all gathered in the lobby, waiting on Logan.
Coach hasn’t shown yet, but a few of the guys are already getting antsy, tossing jokes back and forth and making a show of checking their phones like it’s been hours instead of five minutes.
“He forget we’ve got a game?” Blue mutters.
Peter stretches his arms overhead with a loud yawn. “Wouldn’t be shocked if he passed out face-first on his bed. It’s nuts how sitting on a bus can make you tired.”
I roll my shoulders and glance toward the elevator again, trying to look like I’m not keeping track of every second Logan’s missing. He’s probably just—
The elevator dings.
And there he is.
Logan steps off like nothing’s wrong, hoodie sleeves shoved up, that usual cocky look tugging at his mouth. Like he didn’t just make the entire team wait on him.
“Took you long enough,” Blue gripes.
Logan shrugs one shoulder. “Had to take care of some tension so I could focus.” His eyes flick to mine, and for a fleeting second, I feel all the way down to my toes.
Peter snorts. “You serious? If we lose, it’s on you.”
Logan just grins, unbothered. “Then I guess I better play really well.”
“Max says that’s a myth anyway,” Eli says. “And some studies show that you play better after.”
The guys start giving Eli a hard time as we head toward the waiting bus.
Logan leans in just slightly, close enough for only me to hear. “You could’ve helped, Captain. Would’ve saved me time.”
My jaw clenches, even as heat surges low in my gut. I don’t respond. Can’t. Not when everyone’s still so close. Coach rounds the bus and starts shouting for us to load up.
Logan bumps my shoulder as he passes. Asshole.
Inside the rink, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows across the ice. The boards are scuffed, the home logo in the center a little worn, but the place hums with energy. You can feel it in your teeth. Game night tension.
After a quick dry-land warmup, we hit the locker room to start changing. Coach gives his usual speech. I'm half-listening, half-thinking about how Logan still hasn’t looked at me since we got off the bus.
And then it’s warm-up time.
We hit the ice like we’ve done a hundred times before—me leading defense through drills, while Eli yells something about needing another latte..
Logan takes his usual spot toward center ice, stretching out with that ridiculous, fluid grace that should be illegal.
I try not to look.
I fail.
Because there he is—dropping into a lunge that should be rated R, dragging his stick with one hand, gaze locked ahead like he has no idea what he looks like right now.
The glide of his hips as he shifts back, the slow roll of his spine as he leans forward, ass up like he’s—
Jesus. Get it together.
I force my gaze away, dropping into my own stretch, but I can still see him in my periphery.
Every long, fluid movement. Every deep bend.
Every smile he throws to no one in particular that still feels like it’s aimed straight at me.
And then, just to make sure I die today, he catches my eye across the ice.
Winks.
Casual as fuck.
I swear under my breath and roll my shoulders like I’m working out a knot, even though the only knot I’ve got is the one forming low in my gut.
“Focus, Shaw,” I mutter, slapping my stick against the ice.
Because if I don’t get my head on straight before puck drop, Logan Brooks is going to be the reason I skate into a wall.
We skate another few drills—tight turns, slap shot practice, passing sequences that are more about rhythm than actual effort. Nothing too intense. Just enough to loosen up.
The stands are starting to fill now, a low murmur building into something more as students and locals trickle in. A sea of jackets and foam fingers and camera phones waiting to catch the first goal.
I drop into a quick crossover drill with Blue and Peter, my skates slicing across the ice, clean as hell. Logan’s on the other side, taking one-timers with Daniel, laughing when Eli teases him for missing the net.
And I’m watching him again.
Of course I am.
He moves like he was made to live on the ice—shoulders loose, eyes sharp, lips curved like he knows the crowd’s already half in love with him. Hell, maybe they are. I’m so locked in that I almost miss her.
Some girl, pressed up against the glass near the far corner. Platinum blonde hair, tight crop top under an open team jacket, as though she bought it just to wear off the shoulder. She knocks on the glass, leans forward with a little wave and a pout that’s straight out of a rom-com.
She’s aiming it at Logan. I stiffen automatically, jaw ticking. My stick taps the ice once. I don’t even know why I care. But Logan doesn’t even glance over.
He doesn’t wave or flirt. Doesn’t so much as give her a second of his attention. Just skates past her like she’s invisible and keeps talking to Daniel.
And something… eases in me.
I don’t know what the hell that feeling is—but it slides through my chest, warm and stupid and way too soft for a guy who doesn’t know what this is between us.
Because he could’ve smiled. He could’ve flirted or soaked up the attention like he always used to in high school.
But he didn’t. He didn’t even look.
We line up for puck drop, Logan just off to my left. He gives a quick glance across the center ice line, sizing up the other team with that sharp glint in his eye, the one that says bring it on.
He catches me watching and smirks.
Focus, Shaw.
The ref blows the whistle, and we’re off. The game starts fast—puck flying, sticks clashing, bodies checking hard into the boards—but Logan and I move in sync like we’ve been playing together for years, not weeks.
He backs me up on a rush, reading the play before it even forms. I dig the puck out of the corner, send it behind the net, and he’s already there, ready for the transition.
Our team plays like a well oiled machine, and I’m positive Logan and I are at the center of it all. We score again, and the crowd goes wild.
Coach claps once, sharp and loud. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Textbook transition, boys!”
We keep the pressure on. Logan reads every play like it’s a script he helped write. When he moves in, I shift like it’s instinct.
Because it is.
He doesn’t just play with confidence. He plays with trust. And I trust him. Fuck, I trust him…when did that happen? I shove the thought away; I’ll look at it later.
We shut down two rushes like it’s nothing, forcing bad-angle shots and cutting off lanes until the other team’s left looking frustrated and winded.
On our next swap out, we glide back to the bench. Coach grabs my jersey to stop me.
“You two got eyes in the back of your heads or something?”
I shrug, breathing hard. “Just reading the ice.”
Coach grins. “If there’s scouts in the stands, they’re watching that line. Keep it up.”
I glance over at Logan as we settle on the bench, both of us sweating, grinning, adrenaline still running hot.
He leans in, breathless. “You‘re making me look good out there, Captain.”
I bump my shoulder into his. “You’re welcome, Romeo.”
He snorts and takes a long drink of water from his bottle. “Keep that up, Shaw, and you won’t be walking right tomorrow.”
The words are so low I know the others couldn’t have heard them, but I can feel the blush heating my cheeks anyway. At least I can blame it on working hard out there. And not on what he just said.
I don’t respond—can’t. Not with that stupid grin trying to crawl across my face and the rush of heat crawling down my spine.
Logan just smirks and leans back, pretending to focus on the ice like he didn’t just threaten to wreck me in the middle of a Division I game.
Blue comes back for a swap off, and I practically bolt back over the boards, needing the cold air to cool off what Logan’s words set on fire.
We fall right back into rhythm—as though we never left. He clears the crease, I chase down a breakaway. He slaps the puck up the boards, and I’m already there to catch it and send it flying to center ice.
Another assist. Another goal. Another fucking grin from Logan as if he knows we’re untouchable.
And maybe, tonight, we are.
The crowd’s electric, feet stomping, cowbells clanging. The student section’s on their feet, screaming chants that don’t even make sense anymore as their team loses.
Logan doesn’t react to the puck bunnies screaming his number or holding up signs. He doesn’t flash his smile at anyone but me. Doesn’t even glance their way. And yeah. That does something to me.
Something warm. Something stupid.
Something that makes me play harder, skate faster, push deeper into the zone just to meet him there—where he’s already waiting.
And when the final buzzer sounds and we’ve won by three, it’s his glove that smacks mine first in celebration, our helmets nearly clashing as we yell something incoherent and ridiculous.
We’re both grinning like idiots as we head for the tunnel. Because that’s the kind of game it was.
And that’s the kind of night I’m hoping it still might be.