Chapter 3
Reese
The Monday teacher workday should be my chance to catch up on grading and prep for the Blades visit, but instead, I'm procrastinating at Hill of Beans, my favorite coffee shop, hunched over student portfolios with a pen cap between my teeth.
The place pulses with its usual mid-morning crowd—remote workers with their laptops, college students cramming, and a handful of other teachers I recognize with the same desperate look in their eyes.
Two weeks until parent-teacher conferences, and I'm already drowning in documentation.
I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee and grimace.
Too bitter. I head to the cream and sugar station, mentally rehearsing what I'll say when the hockey players visit.
Should I be professional and academic? Casual and friendly?
Every scenario I imagine ends with me saying something mortifyingly inane or tripping over my own feet.
My phone buzzes.
Elena: How’s your "research" coming?
I snort and drop my phone back into my pocket.
After our dinner Friday night, she's been relentless with the hockey player teasing.
I'm not about to admit I spent Saturday night watching YouTube videos of the Blades’ post game interviews playing my own version of “Shoot, shag or marry." It’s been so long since I’ve had any steamy action, every one of them wound up on either the shag or marry list.
"Focus, Reese," I mutter to myself, splashing cream into my coffee and watching it swirl. "They're just guys who happen to play a sport professionally. No need to get weird about it."
I stir in sugar, fixated on the dissolving crystals, running through tomorrow's playful math centers in my head. I need to finalize the counting games and finish the colorful charts for our number line—
I turn, take two steps with my head down, and suddenly, I feel the world shift into slow motion; I can see the approaching figure, but my body's pre-coffee reflexes lag, and before I can stop—bam!
The impact knocks me off-balance. My coffee launches between us like a caffeinated missile. There's a split second—this perfect, suspended moment—where I watch the liquid arc through the air before gravity remembers its job.
Then chaos.
Hot coffee splashes across my white blouse, speckling it with what looks like what might be another hippo.
More of it drenches the front of a dark blue sweater that's stretched across a broad chest. I stare straight into the chest in question, which is wide and apparently immune to the laws of physics because it didn’t budge.
"Oh my god," I gasp, horrified. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking—"
"Whoa there," a deep voice says, hands steadying my shoulders. "You okay?"
I look up—way up—into eyes that shift between green and amber, framed by thick dark brows. A strong jaw with just the right amount of stubble. A mouth that's quirked in amusement rather than annoyance.
And I stop breathing, because I know that face.
Logan McCoy. Captain of the Chicago Blades. In the flesh.
Standing right in front of me, covered in my coffee.
The thin white fabric of my shirt has gone transparent where the coffee hit, clinging to my skin and revealing the outline of my bra. Perfect. Just perfect.
"I'm so sorry," I stammer, crossing my arms over my chest. "I should have been watching where I was going."
"Well, I gotta confess I saw you coming and didn’t move." He hands me the napkins in his hand. "Though, this is a new one. Usually fans just ask for autographs."
Is he... joking with me? I crouch beside him, wiping up the mess on the floor, adrenaline making my hands shake.
"I'm not—I mean, I know who you are, but I wasn't—" I stop, take a breath, and try again. "I'm actually a teacher. At Parkside Elementary."
His eyes light with recognition. "No kidding. The reading program?"
I nod, surprised. "You know about that?"
"PR briefed us last week. I'm one of the guys headed your way." He hands me some more napkins, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity races up my arm at the contact.
"You're coming to my classroom?" My voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched.
He grins again, and damn if it isn't even more devastating up close than on TV. "Looks like it. Though maybe I should bring a raincoat."
The teasing breaks through my panic, and I laugh despite myself. "You’ll be safe there. I promise not to throw hot beverages at you."
"Appreciate that." He stands and offers me his hand. His palm is warm and calloused when I take it, his grip strong but kind as he pulls me to my feet. "Logan McCoy."
"I know." The words slip out before I can stop them. "I mean—I'm Reese. Reese Thompson."
"Nice to meet you, Reese Thompson." He doesn't let go of my hand immediately, and I don't pull away. "Even under the circumstances."
We're standing closer than strangers should, coffee dripping from both our clothes onto the floor. I should step back. I should apologize again, grab some more napkins, do literally anything other than stare at him like an idiot.
Instead, I say, "Elena Barnes is my best friend. Her dad is—"
"Coach Martinez. Small world." His expression shifts with interest. "You and Elena go way back?"
"Since grade school." I finally manage to step back and grab a handful of napkins from the dispenser. "She's going to howl when I tell her about this."
"About how you assaulted me with a caffeinated weapon?" His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
I hand him some napkins. "About how I made the most mortifying first impression possible on one of her dad's players."
"Trust me, I've seen worse." He dabs at his sweater with the futility of someone trying to mop up the ocean with a cocktail napkin."Last season, a rookie threw up on my white shoes after his rookie party."
"That does make me feel marginally better." I'm dabbing at my own blouse, though it's a lost cause. The coffee has already stained the fabric, and the dampness is not helping with the transparency issue.
Logan shrugs out of his jacket—a sleek charcoal gray one that is straight off the pages of GQ’s fall fashion guide—and holds it out to me. "Here."
I blink at him. "What?"
"For your..." He gestures vaguely at my chest, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "You know."
"Oh." Heat floods my face again. "No, I couldn't—"
"Please. My mom would kill me if she knew I let a woman walk around like..." He trails off, still holding out the jacket. "It's clean, I promise."
The gesture is so unexpectedly thoughtful that I find myself taking the jacket before I can overthink it. "Thank you." I slip it on, and it envelops me like a warm hug, smelling faintly of cologne. "I'll get it dry-cleaned and return it when you come to Parkside."
"No rush." His eyes linger on me, and something about his gaze makes my pulse quicken. "It looks better on you anyway."
I laugh, ducking my head. "Now you're just being nice."
"I'm being honest." He steps a little closer. "And maybe I'm thinking this wasn't such a bad way to meet after all."
There's an intensity to his gaze that catches me off guard. This isn't just friendly banter anymore. This is... something else. I tingle and it’s hard to breathe.
"I should probably..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. "Teacher workday. Lots of work. Not much teaching."
"Right." He nods, but doesn't move away. "So, Reese Thompson, kindergarten teacher and coffee ninja. Can I see you before the reading thing?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility. Is he asking what I think he's asking?
"I—maybe?" I manage, feeling completely out of my depth. "I mean, if you want to..."
"I do want to." The directness of his response sends a shiver down my spine. "How about I give you my number? In case you need to coordinate anything for the visit. Or want to return the jacket. Or..."
"Or?" I prompt when he trails off.
His smile turns a shade more intimate. "Or if you just want to talk."
"I'd like that." The words come out barely above a whisper.
As he enters his number into my coffee-splattered phone, I can't help but marvel at how quickly this day has changed course. Up until ten minutes ago, I was feeling like a love-life loser. Now I'm wearing Logan McCoy's jacket and watching him save his contact in my phone.
"There." He hands it back, our fingers brushing again. "Ball's in your court now, Reese."
"Thanks for being so cool about..." I gesture to the mess we've created. "All this."
"Collisions are what I do for a living." He winks, and my heart does a ridiculous little flip. "See you soon?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. As he walks away, throwing one last smile over his shoulder, I stand frozen in place, clutching my coffee-stained papers and wrapped in his jacket.
Did that really just happen?
I'm halfway down the block, walking to my car, and I can’t believe I’m wearing Logan's jacket.
The sleeves hang past my fingertips. It smells so good.
Like he did. It makes my stomach flutter every time I inhale.
My coffee-stained blouse is tucked beneath it, safely hidden from view, but there's no hiding the racing of my heart or the heat in my cheeks.
Did that really just happen? Did I really just meet—and completely humiliate myself in front of the captain of the Chicago Blades?
And did he really just give me his number?
I duck into a quiet alley between buildings and lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath. The cool October air does nothing to calm the warmth spreading through me. I close my eyes and replay every moment of our encounter, half-convinced I imagined the whole thing.
But the jacket is real. The phone number in my contacts is real. The coffee stain on my blouse is definitely, unfortunately real.
"Holy shit," I whisper to no one, running my fingers through my hair. "Holy actual shit."