Chapter 25 Logan
TWENTY-FIVE
LOGAN
The Pancake House smells like maple syrup and grease and victory.
We’ve crammed the entire team into one whole section of the small little diner, and there’s not nearly enough room for all of us, but nobody cares. We’re still riding the high from the game—laughing, teasing, and high-fiving each other over plates of pancakes, burgers, and fries.
Peter’s arguing with Blue over who blocked the most shots. Eli’s trying to convince the waitress to add whipped cream to his pancakes. Someone dares Daniel to drink the entire container of maple syrup, and he looks like he’s actually considering it. It is pure chaos.
Todd’s across from me in one of the booths, half-listening to Eli while he takes a bite of the grilled cheese the waitress just brought him. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and the noise, and his hair is still a mess from his quick shower after the game.
He looks good.
He always looks good.
But right now—smiling quietly, fingers brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth, soft in a way no one else seems to notice—he’s unfair levels of gorgeous. I want to kiss him in front of everyone so they all know he’s mine, gorgeous.
My gaze drifts and lands on the bruise along his collarbone, just beneath the edge of his shirt. I gave him that before we left my place yesterday morning. And I plan on kissing it again once we get back to the hotel.
I smirk into my drink and take another sip.
Peter’s now mid-story, wildly reenacting his game-saving block—which really wasn’t game saving with us up by three points, but no one calls him out—with ketchup bottles and way too much hand movement for someone sitting in a crowded booth.
Eli laughs so hard he nearly snorts soda out his nose, and Blue’s already arguing about who really made the play.
But I barely register it.
Because Todd’s looking at me now. Not just glancing across the table but looking. As though he can read my mind and knows how possessive I’m feeling right this second..
The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and knowing, like he’s daring me to do something about it.
And yeah, that’s a dangerous thought. Pretty sure it would ruin everything.
So I do the only thing I can do without broadcasting it to the whole team.
I slide my foot across to him under the table and nudge his shoe.
He lifts one brow, the smile spreading across his face, and I can’t help the grin that answers it.
My heart is racing inside my ribcage and my palms feel a little sweaty, as though I’m a teen on my first date with a guy. It’s almost the exact same feeling, minus that slight feeling of wanting to throw up I had back then. Now, it’s just excitement. Simple flirting in secret around everyone…
I lift my drink to take another sip and almost choke on it as his foot runs up my leg and his toed shoe runs over my inner thigh.
Daniel pats my back like I’m choking to death, not just trying to survive Todd’s entirely inappropriate foot under the table.
“I’m good,” I rasp, clearing my throat and glaring at Todd across the booth.
He blinks, all innocent, like he didn’t just run the edge of his shoe up the inside of my thigh like he owns me and not the other way around.
“Sure?” Todd asks, still laughing like the smug bastard he is. “You went a little red there.”
“You try inhaling soda,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with a napkin and trying very hard not to rearrange myself in my jeans.
Peter’s already moved on, recounting his hit in the second period with the dramatic flair of someone auditioning for a movie role, but I’m only half listening.
Todd’s eyes flick to my mouth again, like he’s waiting for me to crack.
I won’t.
Probably.
Maybe.
“You’re evil,” I mouth across the table.
He shrugs one shoulder, all calm and collected. But there’s heat in his gaze now. Awareness. As if he’s not finished yet.
I sit back, trying to get it together while the guys start debating whether it was actually Blue who caused the offsides call or if Daniel’s footwork is to blame.
Everyone’s loud. Happy. Riding the high of a win.
And I should be leaning into that, too—just one of the guys, laughing and talking shit.
But all I can think about is Todd’s foot. And the fact that we still have a hotel room waiting. And a bruise on his collarbone that I fully intend to revisit.
He catches me staring again, of course, and raises his brows like, What?
I smirk. You know what.
He doesn’t look away. God, I’m so fucking screwed. Not because I want him. That part’s obvious.
But because I think—No. Not here. Not now. Not when I’m still half hard from a shoe.
“Logan,” Eli says, snapping me out of it. “You gonna finish that?” He points to the last few fries on my plate.
I glance back at Todd, who looks very pleased with himself, then slide the plate across the table toward Eli. “Knock yourself out.”
Because if I don’t get out of here soon, I will do something reckless.
Like climb over this booth and kiss Todd Shaw in front of everyone.
The parking lot outside the diner is buzzing—half the team is still riding the high of the win, the other half is trying to out-shout each other with their version of the best play of the night.
Coach barely has to raise his voice to get us on the bus, but he does anyway. “Let’s go, boys, bellies are full, now haul ass.”
I climb the steps two at a time and slip into a seat near the back before anyone can try to sit beside me. I stretch out, close my eyes for half a second—
Then I feel it.
The shift of weight. The brush of a shoulder. The familiar smell of shampoo washing over me.
Todd drops into the seat next to me like he’s done it a hundred times. He didn’t hesitate for even a second.
“Comfortable?” I ask, one brow raised as I turn to him and see him sprawling out, one leg in the aisle.
He smirks, voice low enough that the noise around us swallows most of it. “Figured I’d save you from Peter’s snoring. He normally crashes on the way back to the hotel.”
“Selfless.”
“And I’m great company.”
I snort. He is, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.
He leans forward, stretching his legs out like he owns the whole row. “You weren’t saving this for someone else, were you?”
“You’d know if I was.”
His mouth twitches. “Good. I like this view.”
I glance out the window. “Of Ohio?”
“No,” he says, eyes dragging over me, lazy and amused. “Of you trying really hard not to smile.”
My lips curve before I can stop them. “Cocky.”
“You like it.”
I shake my head and pretend to adjust my hoodie, keeping my voice low. “You really going to sit here the whole ride and flirt with me in front of the team?”
He shrugs. “They won’t notice.”
“They will.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
His knee brushes mine, subtle as anything, but it zings straight through me. I don’t pull away.
He doesn’t either.
Outside the bus, Coach is herding the stragglers and threatening to leave anyone who’s not on in thirty seconds.
After a few minutes, the bus lurches forward, headlights cutting through the dark as we roll out of the parking lot.
Inside, voices lower, and the engine hum takes over.
Every so often, laughter spikes or a phone buzzes with music someone forgot to mute, but most of the team is settling into the short ride.
Outside, streetlights flash in slow intervals, casting silver light over Todd’s face, then shadow, then light again. It’s like watching someone behind glass—beautiful and untouchable.
Except he’s right here, knee against mine, body angled slightly toward me even though we’re not supposed to be anything in public.
I steal a glance, expecting him to shift away now that we’re moving.
He doesn’t.
His elbow rests casually on the armrest, fingers curled loose near mine. One shift and I could touch him. Lace our hands together. Press my thumb to the scar on his knuckle and pretend I’m not breaking every rule I promised myself I’d keep.
Instead, I whisper, “You’re acting weird.”
He glances over, unbothered. “Weird how?”
“Like you don’t care who sees this.”
He shrugs again, and the movement draws my attention to the curve of his neck, the slight purple hue still lingering near his collarbone.
“They’re not looking,” he says simply.
“But they could be.”
He studies me in the dim light, unreadable for a second, and then his lips twist into something small. “You ever think maybe I don’t want to keep pretending?”
That stops me cold.
I blink. Swallow. My heart lodges itself in my throat.
The bus turns, and a sweep of orange light cuts across his face again, highlighting the slight crease between his brows. As though he didn’t mean to say it—but also like he did.
“I thought…” I trail off. What did I think? That he would live his life in the closet? That this thing—whatever it is—only exists in private because we agreed to keep it there?
“You thought I’d never want this out in the open,” he finishes for me.
I shift in my seat, trying to slow the pulse racing in my throat. “You said you weren’t ready.”
“I wasn’t. And maybe I’m still not, not all the way. But I’m also not gonna sit here like you’re just another guy on the team. Not when I know what your mouth tastes like.”
My chest tightens. “Todd—”
“I’m not saying we make out in front of Coach,” he adds quickly, voice still low. “Just… maybe I don’t care if people start to guess. Let ‘em.”
A beat passes. My heart’s still thudding like it doesn’t know what to do with that.
Outside, the highway disappears into black as we merge onto it to get back to the hotel. Inside, his thigh presses into mine again—intentional this time. There’s no mistaking it.
And for once, I don’t know what the hell to say.
So I don’t say anything at all.