Chapter 8
Logan
The October air nips at my fingers as I take Reese’s hand.
We weave through the crowded farmers market, a maze of wooden stalls and colorful awnings stretching down the blocked-off street.
Reese’s eyes light up at each new display—pumpkins stacked in orange towers, hand-knitted scarves draped like fabric waterfalls, jars of honey catching the sunlight.
I’ve lived in Chicago for eight years and never once stepped foot in this place.
Now I wonder what else I’ve been missing.
“Look at these!” Reese tugs me toward a stall overflowing with apples—red, green, yellow, and speckled varieties I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, curls escaping from under her knit hat. “Have you ever had a Honeycrisp? They’re like nature’s candy.”
I can’t remember the last time I paid attention to what kind of apple I was eating.
The women I usually date don’t get excited about fruit.
They get excited about being seen at the right restaurants, about the flash of cameras outside exclusive clubs.
Reese is different—genuinely thrilled by these simple pleasures.
“I trust your expertise,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “Lead the way, apple connoisseur.”
She laughs, the sound cutting through the market’s hum of conversation and live acoustic guitar. “Oh, I’m dangerous in places like this. Fair warning.”
We drift from stall to stall, stopping to sample local cheeses, warm bread, and something called apple butter that tastes nothing like actual butter.
The smells blend together—cinnamon, yeast, roasted nuts, and the earthy scent of fresh vegetables.
Reese seems to know half the vendors, greeting them by name and introducing me without fanfare or explanation.
No one recognizes me, or if they do, they’re too polite to make a scene. It’s refreshing.
At the apple stall, Reese fills a paper bag with her selections, explaining the merits of each variety like she’s teaching one of her kindergarten lessons. When she hands me the bulging bag, I cradle it in my arms like a newborn.
“Careful now,” I say in a hushed voice. “They’re very delicate. We don’t want to bruise the little ones.”
Reese’s laughter bursts out of her. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing my parenting skills.” I rock the bag gently. “Shh, the McIntoshes are very sensitive. They need their afternoon nap.”
She doubles over, clutching her stomach, drawing curious glances from nearby shoppers. “Stop it! People are staring!”
“Let them stare.” I tuck the bag into the crook of my arm and pat it gently. “There, there, little Granny Smith. Daddy’s got you.”
Reese wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” I say, and then freeze, the words hanging between us. Too much, too soon.
But Reese just smiles, warm and genuine. “Maybe I do.”
We continue our loop through the market, stopping for cups of hot apple cider that steam in the cool air.
Reese wraps both hands around her cup, savoring the warmth.
I watch her over the rim of my own cup—the way her eyes close slightly as she takes a sip, the satisfied sigh that follows.
Her ease slices right under my defenses.
I’ve never paid such close attention to another person’s small gestures before, never found them so fascinating.
“Oh!” Reese suddenly grabs my arm, nearly spilling my cider. “Photo booth! We have to!”
I follow her gaze to a vintage photo booth tucked between two stalls. It’s the old-school kind—black curtain, metal frame worn with age.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “That thing looks like it hasn’t been updated since the Carter administration.”
“Exactly why it’s perfect.” She’s already dragging me toward it, her half-finished cider abandoned in a nearby trash can. “Come on, when’s the last time you did something spontaneous and silly?”
Besides deciding to go to a farmers market with a woman I met a week ago? I don’t say it aloud, just let her pull me along.
The booth is cramped, designed for maybe one and a half people, not a six-foot-four hockey player and a grown woman. Reese slides onto the small bench and I squeeze in beside her, our thighs pressed together, shoulders touching. She feeds bills into the slot and the machine whirs to life.
“Ready?” Her eyes meet mine, sparkling with mischief.
“For what, exactly?” I ask, suddenly nervous. I’m not great at photos—too stiff, too practiced from years of team pictures and media headshots.
“For making memories.” She shifts, pressing even closer, her warm thigh against mine making it hard to focus.
The countdown begins on the small screen—3, 2, 1…
Flash. I’m still turning toward Reese, caught mid-laugh as she makes a silly face, her nose scrunched up, tongue sticking out.
“Come on, loosen up!” she teases as the next countdown starts.
3, 2, 1…
Flash. This time I’m ready, making my best “blue steel” model face while Reese throws her head back in laughter.
“Last one,” she says, but instead of facing the camera, she turns toward me. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me down.
3, 2—
Her lips are on mine, soft and insistent, tasting of apple and cinnamon. My brain short-circuits, all thoughts of cameras forgotten. My hand finds her waist, then slides under the edge of her sweater to touch warm skin. She gasps into my mouth, the sound vibrating between us.
Flash. I barely register it.
Reese pulls back slightly, her lips still close enough that I feel her smile. “That should be interesting.”
The machine whirs and clanks, then spits out a strip of four photos—not three like I expected.
The first shows us laughing, the second caught my ridiculous model pose and Reese’s reaction.
The third is the money shot—Reese kissing me, my eyes closed, hand disappearing under her sweater.
And the fourth, which I didn’t even realize was happening, shows Reese with her head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan as my lips find her neck.
“Half sweet, half filthy,” Reese whispers, studying the strip with pink cheeks. “I love it.”
I take the photos from her hand, tucking them into my jacket pocket. “Definitely keeping these.”
We stumble out of the booth, slightly disheveled and grinning like teenagers.
The market continues around us, oblivious to the fact that I’ve had first dates at Michelin-starred restaurants, on private jets, at exclusive clubs.
But this—apples and cider and a cramped photo booth with a kindergarten teacher who spilled coffee on me a week ago—this is the best date of my life.
Reese’s fingers are intertwined with mine as we drift away from the market’s center, seeking fresh air that isn’t all farmer’s market scents.
My heart’s still hammering from what happened in the photo booth, from the unexpected heat of her kiss, from the way she looked at me after—like she wanted to consume me right there between the apple cider stand and the homemade soap display.
I spot a wooden bench at the market’s edge, nestled under a canopy of maple trees.
“Let’s sit for a minute,” I suggest, nodding toward the bench.
She follows my lead, our paper bags of market treasures rustling as we settle onto the weathered planks. Dried leaves crunch beneath our feet, a carpet of gold and rust. The market hum is distant here, replaced by the gentle rustling of branches overhead.
Reese leans into me, her shoulder against mine, and sighs contentedly. “This was a good idea.”
“The bench or the market?” I ask.
“Both.” She smiles up at me. “I wouldn’t have pegged the captain of the Chicago Blades as a farmers market kind of guy.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “Or I wasn’t. This is new territory for me.”
“And how do you like it so far?”
I look down at her—rosy-cheeked from the cool air, eyes bright, a strand of hair stuck to her lip—and feel a pull I didn’t see coming. “I like it more than I expected to.”
We’re not just talking about the market anymore. We both know it.
Reese’s smile softens as she reaches up to brush her thumb across my cheek. “You look serious all of a sudden. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
A dozen deflections rise to my lips—the practiced lines I’ve used for years to keep conversations light, to maintain the comfortable distance I prefer. But Reese deserves better than my PR-approved responses.
“I’m thinking that this feels different,” I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. “You and me. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it.”
Her eyes search mine, patient and open. “Try.”
I look away, watching a maple leaf spiral down to join its fallen comrades. “I’ve dated a lot of women.”
“I’m aware,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Your Wikipedia page has a section titled ‘Personal Life’ that reads like a tabloid highlight reel.”
I wince. “Not my proudest accomplishment.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay.” I turn back to her. “It’s the truth. I’ve had a lot of relationships that weren’t really relationships. They were…” I search for the right word.
“Transactions?” Reese offers.
I nod, relieved she understands. “Yeah. Exactly. They wanted the hockey player, the name, the connections. I wanted…” I trail off, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like an asshole.
“Uncomplicated companionship?” she suggests.
I laugh softly. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
She shrugs. “I’m a kindergarten teacher. I’m good at making difficult concepts sound easier than they seem at first.”
A gust of wind sends more leaves swirling around us. Reese shivers slightly, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
“The thing is,” I continue, “with you, it’s not like that. It’s not transactional. It’s… it matters. And that scares me sometimes.”
The truth lands between us, impossible to take back.
Reese doesn’t laugh or pull away. She takes my free hand, the one not wrapped around her shoulders, and tucks it between both of hers. Her fingers are warm despite the autumn chill.
“Courage doesn’t mean you’re not afraid, Logan,” she says softly. “It means you’re afraid and you do it anyway.”
The simplicity of her words strikes me. In hockey, we call it “playing through the pain”—acknowledging the hurt but refusing to let it stop you. Maybe emotional courage works the same way.
I steady my breath. “So, you know that charity gala I told you I have to speak at next Saturday, for the Blades Foundation. It’s a big formal event, silent auction, speeches, the whole nine yards.” I pause, gathering my nerve. “Will you be my date?”
It seems like such a simple question, but we both understand what it means.
This isn’t just dinner at my place or a farmers market where no one cares who I am.
This is me, Logan McCoy, captain of the Chicago Blades, bringing Reese Thompson, kindergarten teacher, as my date to an official team function.
It’s making a statement. It’s putting whatever this is between us on display for teammates, management, media, fans—everyone.
Reese blinks, her expression unreadable for a moment that stretches into eternity.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I add quickly. “It’s a lot to ask, I know that. There would be photographers, questions—”
“Logan,” she interrupts, squeezing my hand. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
The knot in my chest unravels, relief flooding through me. “Yeah?”
She smiles, warm and genuine. “Yeah.”
“There’ll be press,” I warn. “Probably some gossip sites. Once you show up with me, people will be interested in who you are.”
“I think I can handle it,” she says. “I manage twenty-two five-year-olds every day. A few photographers don’t scare me.”
I laugh, the sound lighter than I expected. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” she adds, her eyes twinkling, “I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear this ridiculous dress I bought on sale last year. It’s been hanging in my closet waiting for a special occasion.”
“The gala is definitely that,” I say. “Black tie, champagne, teammates in tuxedos looking uncomfortable.”
“Sounds perfect.” She leans up and kisses me softly. “Thank you for asking me.”
“Thank you for saying yes.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching leaves drift down around us. I’m still scared—of how fast this is moving, of how much I already care, of all the ways it could go wrong. But Reese is right. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s feeling the fear and moving forward anyway.
“We should probably head back,” Reese says eventually. “I promised Elena I’d meet her for coffee at three.”
I nod, but neither of us moves immediately. The bench is our little bubble of peace, and I’m reluctant to burst it.
“One more minute,” I say, pulling her closer.
She settles against me, her head on my shoulder. “One more minute.”