Chapter 3
THREE
Logan
This was a mistake.
A massive, life-altering, sanity-testing mistake.
Violet Hayes has been in my apartment for less than forty-eight hours, and I’m already on edge.
Her suitcase still sits by the dresser in the guest room, her shoes scattered near the door, her jacket draped over the back of my couch like she’s claiming the place.
It’s been exactly eight years since she was in my space when Declan brought her along for a team cookout. She was barely out of high school then, all wide-eyed curiosity and relentless energy, trailing after her big brother’s friends like she belonged.
She doesn’t look like a kid anymore.
That thought should be enough to make me shove her right out the door.
Instead, I grip my coffee mug tighter and watch as she pads into the kitchen, hair damp from the shower, dressed in a tiny pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweatshirt with the team’s damn logo on it.
My jersey.
I grind my teeth.
“You planning on moving your stuff out of my living room anytime soon?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
Violet barely glances at me as she rummages through a drawer. “Probably.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She hums, unbothered. “Neither was yours.”
I narrow my eyes, already regretting this arrangement all over again. “Are you always this difficult?”
She grins at me over her shoulder. “No, I’m usually worse.”
Jesus.
I watch as she grabs a spoon and heads for the fridge like she owns the place. She moves with an easy familiarity as if she isn’t standing in a house that’s been my space, my sanctuary, for the last few years.
And then she pulls out the peanut butter jar.
I frown. “What are you doing?”
Violet pops the lid off, dips her spoon inside, and scoops out a massive bite. “Breakfast.”
I stare at her. “You’re eating peanut butter. Straight out of the jar.”
“Yep.” She licks a bit off her spoon. “Don’t judge me, Logan. It’s too early for that.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost ten.
I exhale slowly, reminding myself that this is temporary. That she’ll soon find an apartment, and my life will go back to the structured, uncomplicated routine I built for myself.
I do not think about the way her mouth wraps around that spoon.
Or the fact that she’s still wearing my jersey.
I definitely don’t bite back a groan as I watch her tongue lick up the last of the peanut butter from the spoon.
“This isn’t going to work if you treat my house like a damn dorm room,” I say, setting my coffee down harder than necessary. “I have rules.”
Violet rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“Curfew is midnight.”
She snorts. “You’re joking.”
“Not even a little.”
She props a hip against the counter, twirling the spoon between her fingers. “You do realize I’m not one of your players, right? You don’t get to set a curfew for me.”
“Under my roof, I do.”
She arches an eyebrow, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “Logan Carter, did you just admit I’m living under your roof? Does this mean we’re roommates?”
My jaw tics.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this.
Not just because Violet is a walking distraction but because she’s Declan’s sister.
I owe him. He’s been my best friend since I was a freshman in high school.
He’s been my teammate since I was a rookie in this league, the guy who always had my back and kept me in check when I needed it.
And I’d bet my entire career that he wouldn’t be thrilled to know I’m standing here, watching his baby sister lick peanut butter off a spoon, fighting the completely inappropriate thoughts running through my head.
This is dangerous territory.
I need space. Distance.
I grab my truck keys off the counter. “I’ll be at the rink. Don’t break anything.”
Violet salutes me with the spoon. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I don’t stick around to see her smirk.
The rink is my sanctuary. It’s the only place where my head clears, where everything makes sense. But today, I can’t shake my irritation. It sticks to me like a second skin, lingering as I lace up my skates and step onto the ice.
“Bad morning?” CJ skates up beside me, smirking.
I shoot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a bad morning,” Declan adds, coming up on my other side. “Let me guess—Violet’s driving you insane already.”
“She left her crap everywhere,” I mutter, flicking a puck toward the boards. “And she eats peanut butter out of the jar.”
CJ whistles. “Scandalous.”
I ignore him. “She needs to find a place. Fast.”
Declan shrugs. “Give it a week. She just got here.”
“She also posted some ridiculous video of me yesterday.”
CJ grins. “The ‘Hockey’s Most Eligible Grump’ one?”
I scowl. “You saw that?”
“Dude, the whole internet saw that. You’re trending.”
I let out a slow breath. “This is exactly what I don’t need.”
CJ claps a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you just need to loosen up, Captain.”
I shove him off and skate away, but their laughter follows me. I try to put thoughts of Violet and that damn video out of my head.
I fail.
The video has almost half a million views by the time I finish my morning skate.
I don’t check the numbers myself, of course. I hear it from CJ, who’s grinning like a kid who just discovered sugar.
“Captain Grump is trending,” he says as we towel off in the locker room. “Did you know you have fan cams now? One of them is you scowling in different lighting.”
I glare at him. “I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.”
He pulls out his phone and shoves it in my face. Sure enough, there I am, in all my brooding glory. Skating, glaring, lifting weights. There’s music and slow motion and—God help me—sparkles.
"Why are there sparkles?"
CJ laughs. "The internet loves a man with a dark past and biceps. You’re basically a walking trope."
I snatch the towel off my neck and head for the showers without another word. But the damage is done. My teammates are laughing, talking, liking, sharing. And I know exactly who’s responsible.
Violet.
I don’t have proof, not directly. But I know her. She’s got that smile that screams mischief and a brain that never stops working. She probably dug up some old footage and thought she’d do the team a favor. And sure, it’s working—the fan engagement is higher than it’s been in months—but still.
I told her not to post anything without checking with me.
And she ignored me.
By the time I get home, my jaw aches from clenching it all day. The whole ride back, I replay the clip in my head. Cornhole. The damn backyard BBQ. Her laughter in the background. The way I smiled—just once—and she caught it.
And posted it.
She’s on the couch when I walk in, legs curled beneath her, laptop on her knees. She’s wearing glasses—thick-rimmed ones that make her look entirely too cute for my sanity—and a blanket is draped over her legs like she’s made herself completely at home.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up. “How was practice?”
“Take it down.”
Her fingers still. “What?”
“The video. Take it down.”
Now she looks up, brow lifting. “You’re serious?”
“I told you not to post anything of me without approval.”
She sets the laptop aside, rising slowly like I’m a wild animal she doesn’t want to spook. “Logan, it was harmless. You were just playing cornhole. It’s not like I caught you crying in the shower.”
I cross my arms. “You didn’t ask.”
“It was from my phone. From years ago. Before I even worked for the team.”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t matter.”
She stares at me, mouth pressed into a line. “It’s good for the team. Engagement is up, merch is selling, and we’re trending for something fun instead of the usual drama.”
“I’m not interested in being a punchline.”
“No one is laughing at you, Logan.” Her voice softens. “They’re… connecting. You act like people caring is some kind of curse.”
“Because it is,” I snap. “They care until you mess up. Until you lose one too many games. Until you stop smiling in the right way and you’re suddenly the villain. I don’t need fans. I need focus.”
The words hang heavy between us.
Violet blinks like I’ve slapped her.
“I didn’t post it to hurt you,” she says quietly.
I know that.
Of course I know that.
But knowing it doesn’t fix the way my chest tightens every time someone looks at me like I’m more than a player. Like I’m a person. Like they expect something from me.
Expectations are just a fancy way of setting yourself up for disappointment.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Just—please. Next time, ask.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
I expect her to push back more, but she doesn’t. She picks up her laptop and slips into the guest room without another word.
The space feels quieter without her in it.
Which is exactly what I said I wanted.
So why does it feel like a loss?
Practice the next morning is all business, precisely what I need. No CJ teasing, no videos, just drills and sweat and the sharp sting of the puck against my stick. I bury myself in the repetition, the discipline.
Control. That’s what I’m good at.
Until Coach pulls me aside.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. “Fine.”
He studies me for a long second. “You’ve been more wound up than usual.”
I grunt. “Just focused.”
“Focused is good. Uptight isn’t.”
I don’t have a response to that.
He claps my shoulder. “Let the media team do their job. If Violet’s getting us positive attention, that’s a win. You don’t have to carry the whole team alone.”
I want to argue. To say that I do. That if I don’t hold the line, no one will.
But I don’t.
Because maybe he’s right.
Violet isn’t home when I get back. A note sits on the counter:
Working late. Don’t wait up. Also, I reorganized the spice rack. You’re welcome.
I stare at it longer than I should.
The old me—hell, the me from two days ago—would’ve been irritated. But now? Now I picture her standing on her tiptoes, alphabetizing the little jars, probably singing along to some cheesy playlist.
The image softens something in me.
I eat dinner alone, rinse my plate, and leave hers in the dishwasher for her.
She gets back late. I hear the door, the rustle of her bag, the soft thud of her shoes hitting the floor.
I should stay in bed.
Instead, I pad into the kitchen in sweatpants and a T-shirt, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
She jumps when she sees me. "You scared the crap out of me."
I cross my arms. "It’s midnight."
"I brought donuts."
She lifts a paper bag in an offering, like it’s a peace treaty.
I raise an eyebrow. "You think donuts fix everything?"
"Pretty much."
We sit at the island, splitting a cinnamon twist in comfortable silence. She’s glowing, eyes sparkling from whatever work high she’s still riding.
“They’re responding to the new content,” she says between bites. “I’ve got a whole series planned—mic’d up moments, practice bloopers, maybe a few one-on-one interviews.”
“With who?”
She smirks. “You, obviously.”
I give her a look.
“Relax, Captain. I’ll get your good side.”
“I don’t have a good side.”
“You’re wrong,” she says softly.
Something in her voice makes me look at her. Really look.
She’s closer than I realized. Her hand inches from mine. Her eyes not teasing now, but warm. Honest.
The air shifts.
She licks cinnamon sugar from her thumb, and my gaze follows the motion like I’m not the one who made the no-distractions rule.
I clear my throat. "You should get some sleep."
“Yeah.” Her voice is hushed. “You too.”
She slides off the stool, brushing past me.
I don’t move.
Because if I do, I might grab her hand.
Might pull her in.
Might forget every rule I’ve ever made.
And the season hasn’t even started yet.