Chapter 39 Logan
THIRTY-NINE
LOGAN
I drop into my seat with my notebook open, pen ready, doing my best impression of someone who is absolutely going to pay attention in Sports Performance Physiology.
I even write the date in the corner of the page.
That’s where my academic achievements end.
Professor Hilliard starts talking about lactate thresholds and VO? max curves—stuff I normally eat up because it’s directly tied to the ice and making myself a better player—but all I can hear is Todd’s laugh from earlier.
All I can feel is the ghost of his hands on my waist when he kissed me goodbye in the locker room.
I shift in my seat and try to clear my head.
Yeah. Useless.
I flip to a clean page, determined to reset. “Focus,” I whisper under my breath.
My brain: Lol, no.
My knee bounces. I tap the pen. I try to copy a diagram on the board, only to realize halfway through that I’ve drawn a stick figure with messy and curly hair instead of a muscle fiber chart.
I stare at it.
It looks vaguely like Todd.
Jesus Christ.
I slam the notebook shut a little too loudly. A girl in front of me turns around and raises an eyebrow. I give her an apologetic nod that probably looks more like a grimace.
Hilliard drones on about anaerobic output. I try to think about conditioning drills. I think about Todd riding me on my couch instead.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
I’m so fucked.
I take a breath. Another. I try grounding myself the way coaches always suggested during high pressure games—two deep breaths, feet flat on the floor, focus on the present.
The present is a joke. The present has Todd’s mouth and Todd’s laugh and Todd’s everything written all over it.
I catch myself smiling like an idiot and immediately look down at my desk before anyone sees.
Todd’s probably out getting food with Peter right now. Talking. Relaxed. Warm. His hoodie probably still smells faintly like my cologne since he used it this morning.
The thought hits me right in the chest.
My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.
For one irrational second I think—the universe wouldn’t be that kind, would it?
I slide it out carefully under the desk.
Todd: Hope you’re paying attention in class.
My face heats instantly. I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face, stupid and wide.
I text back quickly:
Me: Define “paying attention.”
He responds almost immediately.
Todd: If I walk in right now, will you look like a good student or someone thinking about getting naked with me?
I swallow hard. Same difference.
Me: Definitely the second one.
Three dots appear. Stop. Start again.
Professor Hilliard clears his throat sharply at the front of the room, snapping my head up.
Right. Class. Learning. Future. All still important things. I put my phone face-down. Forty minutes left. I’m never going to survive this.
The second Hilliard dismisses us, I’m out of my chair like the room’s on fire.
My notebook is empty. My brain is full. All Todd.
I head toward the parking lot, tugging my hoodie tighter against the cold as fat flakes drift down. I’m halfway to the Jeep when I spot someone leaning against the driver’s side door—Todd. Hands in pockets. Hood up. Smile soft and smug and aimed right at me.
I slow my steps, because apparently I enjoy torturing myself.
“I thought I said,” I call out, “that I wanted you at my apartment.”
He pushes off the Jeep with the toe of his shoe, sauntering toward me like he owns the whole damn lot.
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging lightly. “But if I came here, I’d get to see you faster.”
It hits me dead-center. Warm and stupid and addictive.
I raise a brow. “You’re trouble.”
He grins. “I think we established that fact already.”
I don’t even pretend I’m not staring at his mouth. “Get in the car.”
I open the passenger side door for him, and he grins and moves to get in, but before he climbs in, he leans close and murmurs, “Miss me?”
I shake my head, but I can feel the smile pulling at my lips. “Get in the car, Todd.”
He finally slides into the seat. I take a second to breathe before I walk around to the driver’s side and get in too.
The moment the Jeep starts and I pull out of the parking lot onto Main Street, he slips his hand onto my thigh.
I stiffen—because holy shit, that’s not subtle.
“Really?” I ask, glancing over with my best don’t-even-think-about-it face.
He draws lazy circles with his thumb. “What? I’m just sitting here. Touching my boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel harder. “Just sitting.”
He drags his fingers a little higher. Just enough to ruin my focus. Just enough to make breathing feel optional.
I choke on a laugh. “Todd.”
“Yes, Logan?”
He says it like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
He definitely is. His hand climbs another inch, and I swear the air leaves my lungs. A soft sound slips out from someplace embarrassingly real inside me.
“Oh,” he says, leaning closer, “are you distracted?”
“Todd,” I warn.
“Mhm?”
That’s it.
I flick on my blinker, cut across two empty lanes, and pull the Jeep into the first parking lot I see. Before he finishes smirking, I’m unbuckling my seatbelt.
He barely has time to ask “What are y—” before I’m on him.
My mouth crashes into his, hours of being teased coming out in one kiss that steals every thought he has. His hands fly up to my hoodie, gripping tight, pulling me closer like I’m oxygen.
He makes a soft sound—half gasp, half moan—and I devour it. He tastes like winter air and heat and everything I shouldn’t want while behind the wheel of a vehicle.
I kiss him until he’s breathless. Until I’m breathless. Until the windows fog and the world outside disappears into cold white noise.
When I finally break away, he’s staring at me with wide, lust-filled eyes and a grin that could end me.
“So,” he says, voice rough, “should I keep distracting you?”
I grab his jaw gently, thumb brushing his cheek. “If you want to get home alive,” I whisper, “you’re gonna sit there and behave.”
He bites his bottom lip, holding back a smile. “No promises.”
I groan. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He leans back in the seat, smug as hell. “Worth it.”
I shake my head, still catching my breath, put the Jeep back in gear, and pull out of the lot.
And yeah—my driving is not better now, especially with the very real issue hard in my jeans.
The drive isn’t long, but with Todd sitting there looking like he wants to climb into my lap every time we hit a stoplight, it feels like an eternity.
He keeps doing that thing where he stretches his arm out and brushes my thigh “by accident.” It’s not an accident. Not even close.