Chapter 6
SIX
Violet
Logan Carter is a walking, talking challenge.
Everything about him is rigid—his rules, his schedule, the way he glares at me like I’m the world’s most annoying problem. And I can’t help it—I love pushing his buttons. It’s so easy. A little teasing, a well-placed smirk, and boom—instant irritation.
But the best part?
I think he likes it, too.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
I tap my fingers against my phone screen as I review the video I just recorded. It’s harmless. A simple, behind-the-scenes clip of Logan from today’s practice, looking all broody and intense while barking orders at the team.
I didn’t even mean for it to be funny, but something about the contrast between his no-nonsense demeanor and the absolute chaos of the younger players struggling to follow directions makes it hilarious.
Especially when I add the right music.
I swipe through audio tracks, grinning when I land on the perfect one: Mission Impossible.
I overlay the video with the text: Captain Carter vs. His Team: A Battle for Sanity and hit post.
It takes less than an hour to blow up.
I’m halfway through editing another clip when my phone buzzes with notifications.
I frown, tapping into the Thunder’s Instagram account, only to choke on my tea.
The video has already racked up thousands of views. The comments are rolling in at lightning speed.
How does he keep a straight face? I’d lose my mind.
Captain Carter: the last sane man standing.
No thoughts, just Logan Carter glaring = my new aesthetic.
Not me imagining what it’d be like to date him.
Wait… why is this kind of hot?
Petition for Violet to keep posting Captain Carter content. WE NEED MORE.
Oh.
Oh no.
I bite my lip, scrolling as the comments take a very unexpected turn.
Apparently, I have unintentionally created thirst trap content for Logan Carter.
And the internet loves it.
There are fan edits already. Someone has made a slowed-down, black-and-white montage of Logan glaring at practice, with a dramatic voiceover that says, “He’s mean… but only because he cares.”
Another post simply features a zoomed-in screenshot of Logan mid-scowl, captioned: “Grumpy hockey boyfriend energy.”
I slam my phone down on the table, covering my face with my hands.
He’s going to kill me.
“Violet.”
I freeze at the sound of my name, slowly lowering my hands to find Logan standing in the office doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark with suspicion.
I clear my throat. “Hey, Captain.”
“What did you do?”
I give him my most innocent smile. “Why do you assume I did something?”
His jaw clenches. “Because my phone has been buzzing non-stop, CJ sent me a ‘Congrats on your internet boyfriend era’ text, and Declan called me laughing so hard he couldn’t get words out.”
I wince. “Okay, so… I might have posted a little video.”
His eyes narrow. “Define ‘little.’”
I slowly slide my phone across the counter.
Logan picks it up, brows drawing together as he watches the clip. I brace myself for impact, expecting him to blow up, to lecture me about professionalism or privacy, or whatever else he can use to justify his grumpiness.
Instead, he stares at the screen, expression unreadable.
Finally, he exhales. “Violet.”
“Yeah?”
“This has two hundred thousand views.”
I blink. “Wait… what?”
I snatch my phone back, refreshing the page. Sure enough, the numbers have doubled since I last checked. Comments are pouring in at an alarming rate, and—oh God— someone made a Logan Carter fan account.
I bite my lip. “Okay, so… technically, this is good publicity?”
Logan gives me a flat look. “Violet.”
“I mean, come on! The fans are engaged! They love you!”
His jaw tics. “They ‘love’ me?”
“Well… in a grumpy, broody, hockey boyfriend fantasy kind of way, yes.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hate this.”
I grin. “You hate that people think you’re hot?”
His glare could cut glass. “Take it down.”
I sigh dramatically. “I would , but I can’t ignore the fans, Logan. They demand content.”
He scowls. “They demand content?”
“Mm-hmm. Look.” I scroll through the comments. “They want behind-the-scenes footage, more candid Logan moments, maybe a?—”
I trail off as a new wave of notifications pops up.
Trending topics: #CaptainCarter. #HockeysGrumpiestGrump. #SlowBurn. #EnemiesToLovers
My stomach drops.
Oh, hell no.
I turn my phone toward him. “Uh… we might have a problem.”
He reads the hashtags, his expression shifting from irritation to something much worse.
Horror.
“No,” he says immediately.
“I didn’t do this on purpose!”
“You started it!”
I wince. “I mean… technically, the internet started it.”
“Violet.”
“Look, it’s fine. It’ll blow over in a few days.”
He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God if I see one more edit of me looking ‘mysteriously broody’—”
“Okay, but you are mysteriously broody.”
He shoots me a look that could end me on the spot.
I hold up my hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll… try to shift the attention to something else.”
Logan mutters something under his breath before heading toward the living room. I watch him go, still fighting back laughter.
Because as much as he pretends to hate it?
I think part of him likes the attention. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with it.
And maybe he doesn’t totally hate the way I look at him, either.
This season just got a whole lot more interesting.
I pack up my things and head home for the day. I still have some work to do, but I can do it from the comfort of Logan’s cushy couch. I should have a few hours before he comes home.
I don’thearhim come in.
One second, I’m curled up on the couch, laughing at thewild amount of engagementthe post is getting. And the next?
Awall of frustration and muscleis looming over me.
Logan glares, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. “You think this is funny?”
I bite my lip. “A little.”
“Violet.”
God, Iloveit when he says my name like that. All exasperation and warning, like I’m thesole causeof his stress.
Which, to be fair, I might be.
I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “What’s the problem?”
“Theproblem,” he says, voice likegravel and thunder, “is that I don’t do social media.”
I blink. “You… don’t?”
“No.”
I frown, scanning my screen. “But you have a verified account.”
“I’ve never posted a single thing on it. Someone from marketing set that up and runs it. I never post anything.”
Igaspdramatically. “Not even athirst trap?”
His brow twitches. “A what?”
I grin. “You know. A gym pic, shirtless mirror selfie, something to make the fangirls swoon.”
He staresat me like I’ve lost my mind.
Which, fine, maybe I have a little, because now I’mpicturing it. Logan, fresh from a workout, sweat on his skin, muscles tight and?—
Nope.
Not going there.
“But you have the apps on your phone?” I remind him.
He shrugs. “The marketing team did that.”
“So…”
Logan exhales sharply. “Take it down.”
I clutch my chest. “Oh, Captain. You wound me.”
“Violet.”
“I can’t take it down.” I shake my head. “Engagement isthrough the roof. Fans are obsessed with you.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus.”
“You’re kind of a fan favorite, actually,” I say, scrolling through the replies. “‘Hockey’s Hottest Grump’ is trending.”
“What?”
I turn my phone so he can see the comments.
@MapleCreekFanGirl: Broody hockey captain? SIGN ME UP
@HockeyLover23:We need more Logan content ASAP. Does he do the angry stick flex?
@ThunderObsessed:Please tell me he’s single
His eyes flick up to mine, slow and lethal.
I swallow hard.
“Take. It. Down.”
I press my lips together. “You’resodramatic.”
He steps closer, and the space between us suddenly shrinks.
He’stoo close—all heat and tension, his broad frame towering over mine.
I try to pretend like it doesn’t affect me. That my heart isn’tbeating out of my chest. That I don’twanthim to do something reckless.
His gaze drops to my lips. Just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
But I notice.
I suck in a breath. “Logan.”
His jaw tightens. He steps back like heneedsthe distance. Like he’s reminding himself exactly who I am.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
He turns, heading for the stairs.
“I want it gone, Violet,” he says over his shoulder. “And no more posts about me.”
I smirk, watching him disappear.
Oh, Logan Carter. You haveno ideawhat you’ve started.