Chapter 6
Reese
My phone buzzes against my desk, and I nearly knock over my coffee reaching for it.
Logan’s name lights up my screen, and the flutter in my stomach is immediate and embarrassing.
It’s been less than twelve hours since he dropped me off at my apartment, since our goodnight kiss that left me dizzy, and already I’m acting like a teenager with her first crush.
Twenty-nine years old, and I’m checking my phone every three minutes like it might sprout legs and bolt.
Good morning. Sleep well?
I bite my lip to keep from grinning too hard. I glance at the clock—fifteen minutes before my kindergartners arrive, enough time to reply without feeling rushed.
Like a rock. You?
His response comes immediately: Barely slept. Kept thinking about you.
The honesty stuns me. My cheeks warm before I can stop them. Before I can overthink my response, I type:
Same. Especially your laugh.
Is that too much? Too earnest? I consider deleting it, but before I can second-guess myself further, I hit send and the classroom door swings open, and my teaching assistant walks in with a stack of construction paper. I quickly set my phone face-down, hoping my blush isn’t as obvious as it feels.
“Morning, Miss Thompson!” sings Mateo, the first student to arrive. His mom waves from the doorway, and I wave back, shifting into teacher mode.
I’m desperate to keep texting with Logan.
It’s going to be a long day.
The week unfolds in a series of stolen moments.
Tuesday morning, I check my phone between helping Zoe tie her shoes and mediating a dispute over who gets the red marker.
Logan sent me a photo of his morning view—dawn breaking over Lake Michigan, the water a sheet of hammered gold.
Thinking of you while I skate, the caption reads.
I save it immediately, this little window into his world.
By Wednesday, we’ve established a rhythm.
He texts in the early morning before practice; I respond during my prep period.
He calls during his lunch break, which lines up perfectly with my students’ independent reading time.
I step into the hall with my phone pressed to my ear, speaking in hushed tones while twenty-two small bodies sprawl across rugs and beanbags with books.
“You should see them,” I whisper, peeking through the door window at my class. “Liam’s got his tongue sticking out while he sounds out words. Sophie’s clutching this ratty stuffed rabbit that’s missing an ear while she turns pages.”
“They sound cute when they’re focused,” Logan says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Much better than my teammates. Kovy calls it ‘independent reading’ when he studies the flight safety card and demands to know why the plane’s floating in the water.”
I snort-laugh, then quickly cover my mouth when Zoe looks up from her book. “Stop making me laugh during reading time.”
“Can’t help it. Love your laugh.”
There it is again—that disarming honesty. It slips between us so naturally, like we’ve known each other for years instead of days.
Thursday brings a rainstorm that has my students bouncing off the walls, their energy magnified by the thunder rumbling outside.
By dismissal time, I’m exhausted, hair frizzed from humidity, cardigan stained with what I hope is just apple juice.
The last parent finally leaves at 4:15, and I collapse into my chair, pulling out my phone to find three texts from Logan.
Practice ran long. Coach is in a mood.
How’s your day with the mini-monsters?
Call me when you’re free?
I don’t even bother packing up first. I hit the FaceTime button, and seconds later, his face fills my screen—hair damp from a shower, a hint of stubble darkening his jaw.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm and low. “You look…”
“Like I’ve been through a war zone?” I offer, trying to smooth down my wild curls.
“Beautiful,” he corrects, and I blush. A lot. “Tired, but beautiful.”
“Flatterer,” I say, but I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
We talk for almost an hour.
He shows me around the empty dressing room, pointing out different players’ stalls and telling stories about their superstitions and best pranks.
Logan tilts his phone toward a row of lockers. “See that stall? That’s Kovy’s. He’s had the same jock since he was in junior hockey. The equipment guys have to sew it back together a couple times every season. The thing is disgusting.”
I prop my phone against my desk lamp and organize tomorrow’s art supplies while we chat, moving in and out of frame. It feels domestic somehow, sharing our spaces, our mundane tasks. When I finally have to leave to meet Elena for dinner, I’m reluctant to end the call.
“Tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s a hint of vulnerability in the question that makes my heart squeeze.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm. “Text me after your game?”
“First thing,” he promises.
Friday lunch break finds me at my desk, scrolling through our text history instead of eating my sad turkey sandwich.
I’ve saved screenshots of my favorite exchanges—the message where he told me about his childhood dog, the one where he admitted he’s afraid of spiders (“Don’t tell the guys, they’ll never let me live it down”), the photo he sent of himself as a gap-toothed seven-year-old in oversized hockey gear.
I’m so absorbed in my phone that I don’t notice my teaching assistant until she clears her throat.
“Hot date?” she asks, nodding at my goofy smile.
I lock my screen quickly, feeling caught. “Something like that.”
“Good for you,” she says, squeezing my shoulder as she passes. “About time.”
Is it that obvious? Have I been walking around with a neon sign flashing “CRUSHING HARD” above my head all week? I touch my cheeks, which feel warm. Maybe I have.
The final bell rings, and I usher my students out with high-fives and reminders about Monday’s field trip.
The weekend stretches before me, forty-eight hours without lesson plans or sight words or lunch monitors.
Forty-eight hours that, for the first time in months, I’m not planning to fill with Netflix and takeout for one.
Logan’s playing an away game in Detroit tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. The possibility of seeing him sends a thrill through me that’s equal parts excitement and terror.
“Wait, back up,” Elena says, her face filling my laptop screen. “He did what after dropping you off?”
“He just kissed me goodnight,” I say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “At my door. Like a gentleman.”
Elena narrows her eyes. “That’s it? No ‘do you want to come in for coffee’? No wandering hands?”
“There might have been some wandering,” I admit, heat creeping up my neck at the memory of Logan’s palm sliding to my lower back, pulling me closer as our kiss deepened. “But he didn’t push for more. Said he wanted to take things slow.”
“Logan McCoy wants to take things slow,” Elena repeats, disbelief evident in her tone. “The same Logan McCoy splashed across gossip sites with half the women in Chicago?”
I frown slightly. “He’s not what I expected, El. He’s thoughtful. He asks questions about my day and actually listens to the answers. Last night on FaceTime, he spent twenty minutes letting me vent about that parent email that upset me, then suggested three different ways I could respond.”
“That’s… surprising,” she admits, her expression softening. “In a good way.”
“Right?” I reach for my phone, scrolling to pull up a particular message.
“Look at this. I told him I was nervous about parent-teacher conferences next month, and he sent me this long text about how he prepares for difficult media interviews. With bullet points, El. The man made me a bullet-pointed list of confidence-building exercises.”
She laughs, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “Okay, I’m impressed. That’s genuinely sweet.”
“He is sweet,” I say, hugging the blanket tighter around me. “And funny. And ridiculously hot, which feels like cheating somehow. No one should get to be that attractive and also have a personality.”
“So when are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully. After his game tonight.”
Elena takes a sip of her wine, studying me through the screen. “Reese, you know I love seeing you this happy. You’re practically glowing. But…”
“But what?” I prompt, though I already know where this is going.
“But I just want you to be careful,” she says, her voice gentle but serious. “Logan has a certain… reputation. And while I’m thrilled that he’s showing you this side of himself, I don’t want to see you get hurt if he’s not looking for something serious.”
“Have you been talking to your dad about this?” I ask, suddenly suspicious.
She shakes her head quickly. “God, no. Dad has no idea, and let’s keep it that way for now. This is just me being your best friend. The girl who picked up the pieces after Jake.”
The mention of my ex makes me wince. Jake, who’d promised forever and delivered three months before I found him with his tongue down his coworker’s throat.
“This is different,” I say, but even I can hear the hint of uncertainty in my voice. “Logan’s different.”
“I hope so,” Elena says sincerely. “I really do. Just… take it slow, like he said. Get to know the real him, not just the charming guy who’s clearly trying to impress you.”
I nod, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket. “I will. I’m not rushing into anything.”
Later, after we’ve hung up, I put on my PJs and double check my phone.
No new messages yet—Logan’s game must still be on.
I pull up the NHL app to check the score: tied 2-2 in the third period.
I switch to the broadcast just in time to see him on the ice, powerful strides eating up the distance as he chases down a Detroit player who’s broken away with the puck.
There’s a collision along the boards that makes me wince, but Logan emerges with the puck, sliding it to a teammate in a seamless motion before taking a punishing check that slams him into the glass.
He gets up immediately, unfazed, and rejoins the play. I find myself holding my breath until the whistle blows, until I can see he’s okay, skating to the bench for a line change.
This is his world—fast, physical, brutal in its beauty. So different from my classroom with its alphabet charts and circle time. Yet somehow, across that vast divide, we’ve found a connection that feels surprisingly easy, surprisingly real.
I watch until the final horn sounds, Chicago victorious 3-2. The players pile onto each other in celebration, sticks raised, gloves thumping backs. Even through the screen, their joy is contagious. I catch glimpses of Logan in the scrum, his smile wide beneath his helmet.
The postgame interviews drag on forever.
I fold laundry, brush my teeth, all while keeping one eye on the screen.
Finally, Logan appears, hair damp with sweat, still in his under-armor, answering questions with practiced ease.
When asked about the game-winning play, he credits his teammates, humble in victory.
My phone buzzes twenty minutes later for our goodnight chat.