Chapter 8
EIGHT
Violet
I think Logan Carter might combust.
Which, honestly, would be a shame because he’s kind of pretty. In a broody, intimidating, I-might-murder-you-in-your-sleep kind of way.
He’s been stomping around the apartment all morning, arms crossed, jaw tight, exuding pure irritation. It’s hilarious.
I know I shouldn’t keep pushing him, but it’s like an itch I can’t scratch.
“You know,” I muse, scrolling through my phone as I lounge on the couch, “if you embraced the meme, life would be easier.”
Logan glares at me from across the room. “I am not embracing the meme.”
“Too late.” I grin, holding up my phone. “It’s already a movement.”
His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”
I bite my lip, considering how much I value my life. Then I decide it’s worth it. “So, funny thing—Thunder fans are now calling you ‘Captain Love Interest.’”
He flinches. “What?”
I sit up, grinning. “Oh, yeah. You’re officially the internet’s hockey boyfriend. Entire threads are dedicated to theorizing your secret soft side. People are convinced you write love letters in a leather journal and rescue stray kittens in your free time.”
Logan rubs a hand over his face like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. “This is a nightmare.”
I smirk. “Or is it an opportunity ?”
He levels me with a deadpan look. “Violet.”
“Logan.”
“Fix it.”
“No.”
His jaw tics. “Violet.”
I bat my lashes at him. “Logan.”
He groans and stomps into the kitchen.
I know I should leave him alone.
But where’s the fun in that?
Besides, I do have work to do. The social media engagement has skyrocketed, and if I’m being honest, Logan’s reluctant role as the team’s resident grump is great for content.
I pull up my laptop and sort through the best clips from practice. Some of the guys are hams for the camera—CJ, obviously, but even Declan enjoys showing off a little. The younger guys? They’re warming up to it.
And then there’s Logan.
A walking, talking intimidation machine.
Except… not really. Because despite his scowl and the terrifying “Captain Carter” reputation, he’s also the guy who spends extra time with rookies after practice.
The guy who shows up first and leaves last .
The guy who, despite hating the attention, is exactly the kind of leader people can’t help but respect.
He might not see it, but I do.
And so does everyone else.
Which is probably why I should have seen this next moment coming.
I’m halfway through editing a very aesthetically pleasing montage of Logan’s game highlights when my phone explodes with notifications.
Not normal engagement. Not even the usual “Logan is grumpy and therefore hot” comments.
This is… different.
The kind of different that makes my stomach drop.
I quickly click on the team’s Instagram page and?—
Oh.
Oh no .
The most recent post isn’t mine. It’s a live video streaming right now, with over 50,000 viewers .
And the title?
Logan Carter Reacts to His Viral Fame.
I sprint into the kitchen, nearly crashing into the counter as I grab Logan’s phone.
“You went live?!”
Logan looks up from where he’s making a sandwich, confused. “What?”
I spin the screen toward him. “ THIS .”
He frowns. “I didn’t?—”
Then his eyes widen as he realizes.
“Oh, shit .”
I snatch the phone, ending the stream as fast as possible. But the damage is done. The chat section was going insane.
I turn on him. “What did you do ?”
Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t do anything . I must’ve accidentally gone live while checking my notifications.”
I stare at him, horror dawning. “So, you’re telling me 50,000 people just watched you make a sandwich and glare at your phone?”
He groans. “I hate everything.”
The fallout is instant .
This man accidentally went live, made a sandwich, and still managed to be hot. HOW?
Grumpy Hockey Boyfriend content but make it unintentionally domestic .
The way he aggressively spread that mustard? A cinematic masterpiece.
WHY DID HE LOOK SO MAD AT HIS SANDWICH?
Hockey’s Most Eligible Grump just became Hockey’s Most Clueless Influencer.
I drop my head into my hands. “This is worse than before.”
Logan glares at his phone like he can will it into submission. “Delete it.”
“I did . But the internet moves fast, Logan. There are screen recordings everywhere .”
He lets out a long breath. “This is my villain origin story.”
I laugh despite myself. “Look on the bright side—now you don’t just have hockey girlfriend fans. You’ve got domestic grump fans, too.”
He groans, resting his head against the fridge. “Kill me.”
I pat his arm. “Can’t. You’re too valuable now.”
The next day, I wake up to find Logan already at the kitchen counter, staring blankly at his phone.
“Dare I ask?” I say, pouring myself coffee.
He slides his phone toward me.
I glance at the screen.
And promptly spit out my coffee.
It’s a fan edit. Of his accidental sandwich live stream .
Set to Careless Whisper.
With the caption: “He spreads the mustard like he means it.”
I wheeze .
Logan looks like he’s seconds from hurling his phone into the sun. “I give up.”
I clutch my stomach, laughing so hard it hurts. “Oh my God, you’re unstoppable now.”
He groans, dropping his head onto the counter. “I hate everything.”
I wipe my eyes, still giggling. “Logan Carter, social media superstar. Who would’ve thought?”
He lifts his head enough to glare at me. “I blame you for this. ”
I grin. “I accept full credit.”
And as much as he pretends to hate it, I swear—for a second—his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.
And I don’t know what’s worse.
That I like being the one to make him smile…
Or that I really, really want to do it again.
“You’re the worst,” he says, approaching me slowly.
His words hold no heat, or not the heat that I’m used to hearing from him. He sounds almost… hesitant. I can see him weighing something in his head, and I lick my lips as he scans my face.
He stops in front of me, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll do what I want him to do, what I’ve been dying for him to do.
Kiss me, I want to tell him, but I don’t.
I wait.
And then…
His head bows toward mine and our eyes lock as his lips descend until they brush mine.
“Violet,’ he groans.
I’m not sure which of us moves first, just that we’re finally, finally , kissing.
It starts like a spark.
A breath. A touch. A kiss that was a long time coming.
But it doesn’t stay soft for long.
The second Logan’s lips claim mine, the world tilts.
His hands are on my waist, my hips, and then pressed into the small of my back like he can’t stand the space between us.
I arch into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
And for a guy who’s made a religion out of restraint, he kisses like a man who’s been starving.
I want to feed him. I want to give him everything.
His mouth moves over mine like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s waited years for this exact moment.
Maybe he has.
God knows I have.
The kiss breaks only when we’re both gasping.
He leans his forehead against mine, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. "We should stop," he murmurs.
I nod. "We should."
But neither of us moves.
His thumb brushes my lower lip.
My hand slides up to rest over his heart, which thunders beneath my palm.
We don’t stop.
We fall.
His fingers brush my cheek, trailing down to my jaw. His touch is rough, calloused, but so gentle it makes my heart ache. I lean into it before I can stop myself.
That’s all it takes. The dam breaks.
Logan’s mouth crashes into mine like he’s starved for me. Like he’s been holding back for far too long and finally let go. There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no question — just raw, aching need.
And God, I match it.
I fist my hands in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to eliminate the sliver of space between us. He tastes like coffee and something inherently him — something I’ve wanted for years but never thought I’d get.
He groans low in his throat, one hand sliding into my hair, the other gripping my hip like he’s anchoring himself. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
But I’m not going anywhere.
My pulse races so fast it’s dizzying. My body is on fire, every nerve ending alive and electric. And when he deepens the kiss — when his tongue brushes against mine and he tilts his head to get even closer — I swear I melt right there on the spot.
This isn’t just a kiss.
It’s years of tension. Years of stolen glances. It’s every fight, every smirk, every rule he’s ever made shattering in one breathless, burning second.
He breaks the kiss, and I suck in some much-needed air.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You’re going to be the death of me, Violet.”
I smile, my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with the man sitting in front of me.
“Worth it.”
He nods in agreement, and then his lips are back on mine, and I’m lost in him. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I moan as he tugs on the strands.
“Need you,” he groans against my mouth.
I nod. I need him, too. More than I’ve ever needed anything.
His hands reach for my shirt, and I help him pull it off. We strip in a frantic frenzy, both desperate to be naked, to be one.
He pushes me back against the couch cushions and braces himself over me, his eyes dark and filled with need and something else. Something that looks like love.
He kisses me, and I spread my legs wider for him as he settles into the soft cradle of my thighs.
“I’ve never done this before,” I admit as he trails kisses down my neck.
“Fuck, Violet,” he groans against my skin. “We don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I cut him off, shivering in his hold. “I want you. Now.”
I grip his hips, trying to tug him closer. He stares down at me, seemingly weighing his options.
“Logan. Please,” I pant.