Chapter 10
NATHAN
Practice is dragging today. My legs, arms, ass, thighs—everything burns, but I keep moving. I drop into position without thinking. Half of it is muscle memory, my body knowing what to do before my brain switches on.
Coach has us running breakouts again, and the pace hasn’t slowed since we hit the ice.
He hasn’t said it outright, but we know why we’re still out here. Last game was sloppy.
We won, technically, but it didn’t feel like a win. The third period was a mess. We eased up, started throwing lazy passes, and we were handing out odd-man rushes like freebies.
Coach didn’t need to say a word for us to know how pissed he was.
And with Westbrook on the schedule next weekend, “good enough” isn’t going to cut it. Not unless we want to get our asses kicked in front of a packed arena.
Coach wants us sharper. Cleaner. Dialed the fuck in.
And I am. I really am.
At least until he cuts across the slot.
Logan glides through the middle, skating like he hasn’t a care in the world. He grins at me through the bars of his cage, sweat dripping down into his eyes.
“You planning on eating every shot today, Hayes?” he asks, his breath fogging in the air. “Or you gonna let us feel good about ourselves for once?”
A couple of the guys laugh because of course they do. Logan could say the sky is green and they’d eat it up and he soaks it in like he always does.
I track the puck as he moves it around the top of the zone, but when he coasts backward, my eyes follow him on instinct.
I sink a little deeper into my crease. “Try aiming better,” I mutter, tapping my stick against the ice.
He slows just enough to drift through my line of sight again, and—because he’s Logan—he winks. “Maybe I’m just distracted by the goalie’s ass.”
I let out a breath behind my mask. He can’t go five minutes without running his mouth.
He wants me to bite back. So I don’t. I stay still.
Keep my eyes on the puck instead of him.
Pretend I didn’t hear it, even though I did.
Even though I start to feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck that has absolutely nothing to do with how much I’m sweating in front of the net.
“Ryan, you’re drifting too wide,” my sister says, pointing with her pen toward the blue line. “Stay inside the dots. If Logan cuts back, he’s got a freeway down the middle.”
Ryan nods, already adjusting his stance and Izzy shifts her attention. “Austin, you’re collapsing too deep. Let Cole handle the pinch. Stay higher so that when we regain the puck, you’re an actual option to start the breakout.”
Austin gives a salute that makes her roll her eyes, but he moves anyway.
Coach blows the whistle. “Run it again.”
Austin takes off down the right side. The guy just… loves this game. You can see it in the way he skates, the way he lights up when the puck hits his stick, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I track all of it from the crease, sliding when Ryan shifts, keeping my weight centered.
Ryan settles the puck near the blue line and lifts his head.
I read his shoulders, the angle of his bottom hand, the slight flare of his blade.
He’s passing. I can tell before the puck’s even gone, and still it’s off his stick before I fully commit.
Austin catches it and dips his shoulder, driving down the wall. He’s faster than he looks, built for brute force, but he still makes it look easy as he glides through the ice. Has to be due to all the figure skating he does with his girlfriend.
I slide with him, catching his eyes through the cage. He fakes the pass once. Twice. He loves that shit—making me wait, trying to bait me out of position. Ryan creeps in backdoor, his stick ready.
Austin looks at him, then at me, and flashes a grin through his helmet before he shoots.
I drop and push hard to the left, stretching out to knock it wide, and the second my edge digs in, something in my thigh snaps tight. A sharp pull tears up the muscle, hot and fast, stealing the air from my lungs so quickly my vision flickers for a second.
The puck whistles past my glove and pings off the far post before slamming into the netting.
Austin throws his arms up. “Let’s go!” he yells, circling behind the net with that shitty, triumphant grin.
I stay crouched, my chest heaving under all this gear, praying this passes before anyone notices. My thigh is throbbing like hell, but it’s just a strain… probably. Nothing serious. Still—fuck, it hurts.
I try to shift my weight to the other leg, pretending I’m just resetting my position but carefully testing the muscle. The movement sends another spark of pain through my thigh, sharp enough to make me bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.
Don’t react. Don’t limp.
I reach down to nudge the puck away with my stick and start to move back into position—
“You good?”
The voice hits me before I even register who it is. I look up, and Logan’s right there, his dirty blond hair plastered to his forehead. The usual grin’s gone, replaced by something that looks a little too serious for him.
Shit.
I straighten my back automatically, feeling the strain in my upper thigh when I do. “Fine,” I lie, my voice wavering a little as the pain shoots up my leg.
His brows lift, not buying it. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quick. “Just get back into position.”
He studies me for another second, before skating backward toward the line.
I shift my weight, trying to stretch out the leg, but the second I do, pain tears up my thigh. I suck in a breath through my teeth and I dig my stick into the ice for balance while I wait for it to ease up.
Fuck. Practice has to be almost over.
I just need to hold it together until Coach blows the whistle.
Act normal. Keep moving. Don’t fucking limp.
When Coach finally blows the whistle, I blow out a breath but as soon as I stand, the ache in my left thigh sends a sharp tight throb near my groin and I have to lock my jaw to keep anything from showing on my face.
I stay there for a second longer than I should, pretending I am adjusting my blocker, and then force myself upright.
Across the ice, Austin slings an arm around Logan’s neck, dragging him into a loose headlock. Logan shoves him away, still grinning as they step off the ice.
I let all the other guys leave before I do, needing a minute to recoup and let the pain settle. I shift my weight onto my good leg and push off the crease.
I glance to my side, seeing Ryan skate straight over to me. “You good?” he asks, giving my elbow a nudge. “You looked a little off on that last drill.”
“I’m fine.” I unclip my mask, flex my jaw, try not to fucking limp. “Just tired and need a shower.”
Luckily, he buys my bullshit and wanders off toward my sister. I glance away before they start making out, because I’ve seen that horror show enough times to last a lifetime. I’ve already got shooting pains running up my thigh. Don’t need the urge to puke on top of it.
I make my way toward the tunnel, my leg throbbing with every step. The guys drift ahead and Logan is in the middle of them, tugging at the straps of his gloves as he walks.
By the time we step into the locker room, he’s already unbuckled his helmet and shakes out his sweaty hair. He rips off his gloves next, flexing his fingers before hooking his thumbs under the hem of his jersey.
He pulls it up over his pads. The fabric bunches on the shoulder pads, catching for half a second before sliding free.
The base layer underneath is plastered to him, sweat dripping down the line of his stomach, pooling into the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his gear.
He drags a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling, and the stretch of muscle across his torso does something to my already fried brain.
Logan’s always half-naked. It’s like he’s allergic to clothing. I tell myself that’s the only reason my eyes ever follow him. Just irritation at how the guy seems physically incapable of keeping a shirt on.
I don’t realize I’m still looking until I glance up and notice the corner of his mouth lifting into a slow, smug smirk as he catches me blatantly staring.
“Like what you see, Hayes?”
I force my gaze away, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck, and push past him, dropping onto the bench in front of my cubby. My thigh screams the second I crouch, but I keep my face neutral as my gloves hit the floor.
It takes fucking forever to get through removing my gear without grimacing. By the time I’m down to just my compression shorts, most of the room has emptied out.
I sit there for a second, catching my breath, then peel those off too. They hit the laundry bin with a wet slap. I’m down to nothing but the thin jock shorts underneath, and even that digs into the sore spot high in my thigh.
I sit back, and let out a slow breath, but when I look up, Logan’s standing in front of me.
His brows dip. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Yes. I’m fine.”
I can tell he doesn’t buy it; he tilts his head as his eyes narrow. “You don’t look fine.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis,” I mutter, shooting him a dry look.
He keeps watching me as I peel off the last of my clothing, and it’s starting to piss me off. I just want to get to the showers before he asks again. So I push to my feet. Too fast.
Pain bolts up my thigh, stealing the breath right out of me. My jaw snaps tight. I pause for half a second, forcing my face neutral even though every nerve is screaming.
Logan’s brows draw in, just slightly, and I know he noticed it.
Jesus.
This is bad.
I grab my towel from the hook above my stall. My hands shake a little, so I fist the terry cloth tighter and keep my eyes away from him.
He’s still standing there, still watching me so I brush past him before he can open his mouth.