Chapter 26 Todd
TWENTY-SIX
TODD
I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
And maybe that’s reckless. Maybe it’s exactly the wrong time to test the limits of what we can get away with, but there’s something about the way Logan keeps shifting in his seat like he doesn’t know what to do with himself that makes it impossible to behave.
The light from the passing street lamps throws half his face into shadow, the other half kissed with gold.
He’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile, trying not to look at me—but I know he’s aware of every inch of space I take up beside him.
I can feel the tension radiating off of him like heat.
He’s squirming.
And I like it.
Logan’s always been so in control. Confident. Even when he lets me touch him, there’s something coiled just under the surface—as though he’s giving me power, but only because he wants to. Because he lets me.
But not now.
Right now, he’s fidgeting like he can’t breathe right, and the fact that I’m the one making him feel that way… yeah, it does something to me.
A few rows back, Eli is chatting with Daniel about something, and Coach’s voice rumbles low over someone’s Spotify playlist. No one’s paying attention to us.
The perfect cover.
So I shift slightly, pretending to adjust my sweatshirt, and drape my hoodie across both of our laps like I’m settling in to sleep. Logan stiffens, but doesn’t stop me.
Good.
Underneath the fabric, my hand finds his thigh.
His breath catches.
I don’t go any further. Just rest my palm there, pretending it’s nothing. Casual. Innocent.
It’s not.
His legs tense beneath my touch, and his fingers curl tight around his armrest, like he’s doing everything in his power not to twitch.
“You okay over there?” I murmur, pitched low enough that no one else will hear.
His jaw tightens. “Peachy.”
I trace a slow, lazy circle with my thumb against the inside of his thigh.
“Still think you’ve got the stamina to take things further?” I ask, echoing his words from the other day after one of our hard late-night practices. My tone is light, almost teasing, but I can feel the way his body reacts. Can see the flush creeping up his throat, even in the dark.
Logan turns his head, eyes glittering in the dim light. “You’re playing dirty.”
I smirk. “I like to win.”
And I do. God, I do.
Because watching him squirm like this—watching him lose that control just a little—makes something low in my gut twist in the best possible way.
Maybe I don’t always want to be the one surrendering.
Maybe I want to see what it’s like when I’m the one calling the shots.
When he’s the one falling apart underneath me.
His breath hitches again when I shift my fingers just enough to brush the inseam of his jeans.
We’re not going to do anything here. Not really. But I want him thinking about it. Want him aching for it.
He leans closer, voice tight. “You keep this up, and I’m going to make you pay for it later.”
I grin. “Promise?”
He glares, but he’s breathing faster now.
And when his thigh presses into my hand, holding it against him, instead of away from it, I know I’ve already won.
His thigh shifts again, just slightly, but it’s enough for me to feel it—him.
Hard.
Pressed tight behind the denim of his jeans, barely restrained and getting worse by the second. I swallow down the low, satisfied hum rising in my chest.
Yeah. That’s for me.
And fuck if it doesn’t go straight to my head—twisting something possessive and dangerous inside me. Not because I want to embarrass him or because I need the ego boost.
Because I want to own it. I want to be the reason he’s struggling to sit still.
I want to be the one who makes his voice crack when he tries to answer a question from Peter three rows up and fails spectacularly because my fingers are ghosting slowly over the curve of his thigh, millimeters from the edge of what he really wants me to touch.
God, I’m a bastard; I’d kill him if he did this to me, yet I don’t stop.
A full-body ache pulses through me, hot and constant. Every bump in the road sends his leg brushing mine, and neither of us moves away. He’s pretending he’s listening to the guys in front of us, but his jaw is locked, his breathing uneven, and I can see the pulse hammering in his neck.
He wants me to stop. He doesn’t want me to stop.
Beneath the hoodie, my hand inches higher, dragging slowly over the worn seam of his jeans, until I feel the twitch of him beneath my palm—straining, needy, hot as fuck.
His hand darts under the hoodie, gripping my wrist.
Not pushing me away.
Just holding.
Tight.
Like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something fucking stupid in front of half the team.
“You’re evil,” he whispers, voice cracking just enough to make my stomach flip.
I lean in, let my breath skate along his jaw. “Not yet, but I can be.”
He groans—soft and low—and I feel it in my chest like a match held to gasoline. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like a warning. Or maybe a threat.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tell me to stop.
I press down just enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth, and my blood surges, thick with want and power and something darker, hungrier, hotter than I’ve let myself feel before.
I’m supposed to be the one who gives in.
But now?
Now I want to be the one who makes him unravel.
I ease my hand back to neutral territory before someone turns around, but not before dragging my knuckles along the bulge behind his zipper. He jerks slightly and lets out a soft, choked curse.
Good.
We ride in silence after that.
But every time the streetlights sweep across his face, I see it in his eyes—He’s aching.
And this time, I’m not the one who’s going to beg.
I don’t move right away when the bus pulls to a stop. Logan starts to shift beside me, but I press my thigh against his under the hoodie—silent signal: wait. His gaze flicks to mine, a little confused, a little curious. I don’t explain.
I just need another second. Just us.
But the second we step off the bus and into the hotel lobby, everything changes.
“Todd!” The voice is loud, warm, and unmistakably familiar.
I freeze mid-step.
Logan does too.
My dad stands just inside the double doors, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket, a baseball cap pulled low over his brow.
He looks exactly the same—gruff, weathered, proud as hell.
His grin is wide when he spots me, and he pulls me into a one-armed hug that smells like beer and gas station coffee.
“Missed you at the rink,” he says, clapping my back a little too hard. “Hell of a game, though. You and that number twelve—” He jerks his chin toward Logan. “You looked like fuckin’ magic out there.”
Logan nods politely. “Thanks, sir.”
Dad grins wider. “You skate like a little shit, but damn, you can pass.” He reaches out and gives Logan a rough pat on the shoulder. “Bet the ladies love that mouth on you, huh?”
Logan’s smile freezes, just slightly. His jaw ticks. I see it—small, fast, tight.
“Yeah,” Logan says, voice perfectly even. “Sometimes.”
I swallow hard, shifting my weight. “Dad, this is Logan Brooks. Logan—my dad, Bill.”
They shake hands.
Dad claps again. “Always knew my boy had good taste in teammates, even if he won’t settle down and give me grandkids. You know how many of my buddies already got four or five? One even just found out he’s gonna be a great-granddad.”
“Yikes,” Logan says under his breath.
Dad laughs, completely missing the sarcasm. “Right? Told Todd he needs to slow down with all the hockey and start looking for a good girl to keep him warm at night.”
Logan’s smile is tighter now. I can feel him pulling away—not physically, but something in the air changes. Thinner. Colder.
I clear my throat. “We’re pretty tired, Dad. Long day.”
“Course, course. Just wanted to see you. Proud of you, kid.” He looks at Logan again. “You too. You two keep skating like that, and the puck bunnies are gonna be banging down your doors.”
Logan doesn’t respond. He just nods, polite but clipped.
Dad ruffles my hair like I’m still twelve. “Night, boys. Don’t stay up too late.”
When he turns and walks away, Logan exhales slowly, his eyes locked on the floor.
I glance at him, unsure what to say. “Sorry,” I mutter, voice low.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. He’s not a bad guy.”
He’s not. But I can see how much damage a not-bad guy can still do without meaning to.
The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the low hum of voices from the hallway. For a second, neither of us says anything.
Logan crosses the room and sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands laced together like he’s trying to hold something in. He’s still in his hoodie, but all the lightness he carried through the bus ride, the diner, the jokes—it’s gone.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
He huffs a laugh, short and humorless. “Yeah. Just… yeah.” His gaze lifts to mine. “He’s a good man,” he says again.
I nod. “Yeah. He is.”
“He loves you.”
“Yeah,” I repeat, softer now, because it’s true. My dad’s rough around the edges, too loud, too stubborn—but he’s always been there. Always tried.
Logan exhales and scrubs a hand over his face. “You don’t have to explain him. I get it.” There’s a pause. “That’s what makes it worse.”
I frown. “Worse?”
He flops back onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“He means well. But the way he talks—like there’s only one right kind of love, one right kind of man—” He stops himself and shakes his head.
“I’m sure it’s hard as hell to face that and know that you aren’t that guy.
And you flinch without even moving when he makes offhanded comments about grandkids and puck bunnies. ”
The words hit hard. Not because they’re cruel. Because they’re true.
I sink down beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush. “You saw that, huh?”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “You got quiet. As if you were trying to take up less space.”
My throat feels tight. “Old habit.”
Logan rolls his head toward me, eyes searching mine. “You told me you don’t want to hide anymore.”
“I did.”
“You meant it?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I did.”
He nods slowly, but the tension doesn’t leave him. “It’s just—if you can’t even tell him, the guy who raised you and clearly adores you…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “How are you supposed to tell anyone else?”
I roll to my side and stare down at his hands lying next to him, so close I could reach for him. He’s not talking about people like Daniel, who guess my secret, he’s talking about everyone else. “I don’t know.”
He blows out a breath, the kind that sounds like it hurts. “I’m not mad at you, Todd.”
“I know.”
“I just—” He hesitates, voice breaking slightly before he reins it back in. “I hate that you feel like you have to choose between being his son and being…you.”
That undoes me a little. Because he gets it, the real heart of the issue.
What if my dad doesn’t love me anymore? That might sound like a stupid reason to hide parts of yourself from the world, but when my mom left us…
he was all I had. Him and my sisters. It was us against the world.
And losing that would be losing a part of myself, even if it would be freeing the other part.
I reach for his hand without thinking, threading my fingers through his. His palm is warm, steady. Familiar.
“I’ll get there,” I say quietly. “Maybe not soon. But I will.”
He nods once, eyes closing like he’s trying to believe it.
Then he rolls to his side and shifts closer, resting his forehead against my temple.
“You better. Because hiding you feels like hiding the best part of my life. I can’t hide the fact that I’m head over heels in love with you, and every part of me wants to love you out loud for the whole world to see. ”
Something in my chest cracks wide open. I turn my head and press a kiss just below his jaw. “I’ll get there,” I whisper again. “And I am head over heels in love with you, too, Romeo.”
His forehead presses to mine for a long beat, our breaths falling into sync. Then, slowly, he shifts.
Logan moves first—arm curling around my waist, tugging me closer until there’s no space left between us. My head drops instinctively to his shoulder, nose brushing the soft cotton of his shirt, his scent grounding me in the way nothing else does.
His hand finds the small of my back, fingers splaying there like he needs to keep me close. Like letting go isn’t an option.
“I wasn’t expecting you to say it back,” he murmurs, voice low and warm against the crown of my head.
I smile, cheek pressed to his chest. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
His chest rises under me with a quiet laugh. “You are. Every damn day.”
My fingers find the hem of his hoodie, holding on. “I’ve never said that to anyone before.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches again—but it’s not heavy. It’s safe.
His thumb starts moving in slow circles along my back. “I meant it, you know. About wanting to love you out loud.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t have to rush. I just… I want you to know I’m here. No matter what pace you need.”
That tight knot that’s lived under my ribs for years loosens a little more.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Logan tips my chin up gently, eyes finding mine in the dim light. “You deserve everything.”
Then he leans in and kisses me—soft and slow and devastating in its tenderness.
It’s not about lust. It’s not about pressure. It’s just… us.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine again.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, lips brushing mine, “next time you fuck with me under a hoodie on a bus and then say you don’t want to be obvious, I’m going to remind you of this moment.”
I snort, the sound muffled against his neck. “Noted.”
We stay like that until our breaths slow and the world fades out, nothing left but the warmth of his arms and the quiet echo of words I never thought I’d say—and meant with everything I have.
I love you, Logan Brooks.