Chapter 9
Reese
“Miss Thompson, do hockey players really fight and get their teeth knocked out?” Griffin asks, making a punching motion that nearly clips Sophie’s ear.
“Some players occasionally fight, but it’s not the main part of hockey,” I explain, keeping my teacher voice steady. “And they wear mouthguards to protect their teeth.”
“My brother says they punch each other in the face and there’s blood everywhere!” Lucas announces with gleeful horror.
“Will they sign my jersey? My dad says I have to ask,” Zoe chimes in, tugging at her oversized Blades shirt that hangs to her knees.
The questions come rapid-fire, each child more excited than the last. I’m dodging questions coming from every direction. My hands hover at my collarbone—to keep them busy and disguise the shake.
“Miss Thompson, do you have a boyfriend?” Lily asks with the devastating directness only five-year-olds possess. “My mom says you should because you’re pretty.”
My cheeks ignite. “That’s a personal question, Lily,” I manage, while fragments of last night flash—his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear. I straighten my sweater, painfully aware that less than twelve hours ago Logan’s hands were on my skin.
“But do you?” she persists, her eyes wide and innocent.
Ms. Jenny swoops in, mercifully redirecting. “Let’s focus on getting ready for our visitors, friends. Remember our listening bodies?”
The children immediately straighten their spines and fold their hands in their laps, pure muscle memory from repeated kindergarten routines. It lasts approximately seven seconds before they dissolve back into wiggling excitement.
“I need everyone on the rug with calm bodies,” I say, clapping a rhythm they reflexively clap back. “Our hockey friends are coming to read stories, not to see how wild we can be.”
“Can they show us how to hit someone with a stick?” Finn asks, demonstrating with a ruler turned imaginary hockey stick that nearly hits the class turtle’s tank.
“No stick play inside,” I remind him. “And hockey is about skating and teamwork and—”
“Fighting!” several boys chorus, pumping their fists.
I shoot a desperate look at Ms. Jenny, who smothers a laugh behind her hand.
We’ve been preparing for this visit for days, but nothing could fully prepare me for this collision of my personal and professional lives.
Logan in my classroom. Logan, whose scent lingered exquisitely when I showered this morning.
“Miss Thompson, you’re all red,” Sophie observes, her head tilted. “Do you have a fever? My mom says fevers make your face hot.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just excited about our visitors.”
“Are you excited because your boyfriend is coming?” Lily persists.
Before I can formulate a response that won’t traumatize twenty-two families, the intercom snaps on.
“Attention, Parkside Elementary. Please welcome our special guests from the Chicago Blades who have just arrived. Captain Logan McCoy, Alex Peterson, Dmitri Kovalev, and Ben Mitchell will be visiting classrooms for our reading initiative. Thank you for making them feel welcome.”
My pulse kicks hard at the sound of his name over the speaker. The same name I gasped last night when his hands—
“Logan McCoy is the captain!” Lucas shouts, jumping up. “He’s the best one!”
“I like Kovalev better,” argues Mateo. “He fights more.”
“Everyone sit crisscross applesauce,” I say, grateful that years of teacher training allow me to function on autopilot while my insides perform gymnastics. “Remember our visitor manners?”
“Listening ears, quiet hands, respectful questions,” the class recites in uneven unison.
“Perfect.” I exhale, palms flat to my sides. I lean over and whisper, “Jenny, how do I look?”
She gives me the kind of smile that says, I see you. “Like a professional kindergarten teacher who definitely isn’t freaking out about seeing someone special.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks again. “That obvious?”
“Only to another adult,” she assures me. “The kids just think you’re excited about hockey.”
Footsteps sound in the hallway, and twenty-two heads snap toward the door at once. My stomach tightens. How am I supposed to maintain my professional composure when Logan walks in? How do I look at him without remembering the feel of his lips and the sexy friction from his stubble last night?
“They’re coming!” Zoe whispers with the kind of intensity reserved for celebrities.
“Remember,” I say, my voice steady, “we are respectful and kind to our visitors. They’re here to read with us—let’s show them our best listening.”
“And fight!” Griffin adds enthusiastically.
“No fighting,” I correct firmly. “Reading stories. Being good role models.”
The footsteps grow closer. I imagine Logan walking these halls, his powerful form oddly at home here. Will he look at me differently in front of the children? Will he be able to hide what happened between us? Will I?
“Ms. Jenny, can you open the door for our guests when they arrive?” I ask, needing her at the entrance to buy me a few more seconds to compose myself.
She nods and moves toward the door while I take my place behind the children, partly to keep them contained and partly to give myself time to adjust to seeing Logan in this context.
“When they come in,” I remind the class, “we’ll greet them with our welcome song.”
The kids nod eagerly, some practically vibrating with excitement. I hear muffled voices outside the door now, adult male voices so out of place in our world of high-pitched questions and singsong instructions. One of them is Logan’s—my girl parts tingle. Great.
The doorknob turns. My pulse spikes. I force my face into what I hope is a neutral, professional expression as Ms. Jenny pulls the door open.
Here we go.
I step back against the bulletin board as Logan enters, flanked by three other players who seem massive in our child-sized classroom.
The welcome song dissolves into gasps and exclamations at the sight of these giants in Blades team gear.
But I only see him—Logan in worn jeans and a crisp team polo stretched across those broad shoulders.
His eyes find mine instantly, a flash of intimate recognition quickly masked by professional warmth as Ms. Jenny makes introductions.
“Boys and girls, please welcome Captain Logan McCoy, Alex Peterson, Dmitri Kovalev, and Ben Mitchell from the Chicago Blades!” Ms. Jenny announces with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly recognizes the men standing before us.
The children’s applause turns into wide-eyed stares. Finn’s mouth hangs open like he’s seeing superheroes materialize before him, which I suppose, in his five-year-old world, he is.
“Thank you for that amazing welcome,” Logan says, his voice pitched gentler than I’ve ever heard it. He crouches down, bringing his imposing height closer to their level. “We’re excited to be here with all of you today.”
The other players follow his lead, dropping to one knee or bending at the waist. It’s startling how naturally Logan adapts to this environment—so different from the rink where he commands respect with his physical presence, or the dimness of his bedroom where he—
“Miss Thompson says you knock people’s teeth out!” Lucas blurts, cutting off thoughts I shouldn’t be having here.
Logan laughs, warm and familiar. “Miss Thompson said that, did she?”
His eyes flick to mine, a private joke passing between us. My cheeks warm.
“I said that’s what some people think hockey is about,” I clarify, keeping it calm. “But it’s really about teamwork and skill.”
“Miss Thompson is right,” Logan agrees, nodding solemnly at the children. “Hockey is about working together with your team. Sometimes it gets rough, but that’s not the most important part.”
The children’s hands shoot up at once. Lily all but bounces.
“Are you Miss Thompson’s boyfriend?” she asks.
The room goes silent. I feel every adult eye swing to me as heat climbs my neck.
“Lily, remember we talked about appropriate questions,” I manage, my voice slightly higher than normal.
Logan recovers faster than I do. “I’m here today as a hockey player, not to talk about personal things,” he says smoothly, then points to Zoe. “What’s your question?”
“Can you sign my jersey?” she asks, plucking at her oversized Blades shirt.
“Absolutely,” Logan says. “We’ll do autographs after our story.”
The questions continue rapid-fire: How fast can you skate?
Does it hurt when you fall? Do you have a dog?
Logan handles each with patience and good humor, never talking down to them.
The other players chime in too, but it’s Logan who naturally commands the room—not with authority but with a gentle steadiness that surprises me.
When question time ends, Logan moves toward our book display. “Which one should we read today?”
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar!” several voices call out, our class favorite.
Logan picks the book from the shelf with careful fingers. “Great choice,” he says, settling into my reading chair.
The children scramble to find spots on the rug in front of him, jostling for prime positions. Ezra, our quietest student who rarely speaks, hangs back, watching Logan with a mixture of awe and uncertainty.
“There’s a spot right here,” Logan says gently, patting the rug beside his chair. Ezra inches closer but doesn’t sit.
I move to the back of the group, partly to keep an eye on everyone and partly because I need space to breathe.
Watching Logan in my classroom feels impossible and exactly right at once—the man who whispered filthy things against my neck last night is now turning pages of a children’s book with careful concentration.
“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf,” Logan begins, his deep voice softening around the familiar words.
As he reads, something magical happens. This professional athlete—this man who can destroy opponents on ice now softens his voice for a picture book—transforms the simple story with different voices for each day of the week.
The children lean forward, completely captivated.
Even Ms. Jenny watches with undisguised admiration from her spot by the door.
“On Saturday, he ate through one piece of chocolate cake…” Logan reads, making exaggerated munching sounds that send the kids into fits of giggles.
Somewhere during the caterpillar’s Thursday feast, Ezra edges closer and closer until he’s leaning against Logan’s leg.
By the time the butterfly emerges, Ezra has somehow climbed into Logan’s lap, his small body dwarfed by Logan’s powerful thighs.
Logan adjusts without missing a beat, one arm supporting Ezra while the other holds the book.
The tender picture they make—massive hockey player cradling my most delicate student—presses a sudden ache under my ribs. This isn’t just attraction anymore. This is something more.
“The end,” Logan says, closing the book to enthusiastic applause from twenty-two pairs of small hands.
“That was the best Hungry Caterpillar ever!” Sophie declares with decisive authority.
Logan laughs, carefully helping Ezra back to his feet. “Thank you. Coming from caterpillar experts like you, that’s a huge compliment.”
The PR coordinator who accompanied them steps forward, checking her watch. “We should move to the next classroom,” she says apologetically.
Logan nods and stands, towering once again in our small space. The other players, who have been sitting with small groups of children, begin saying their goodbyes. As promised, they sign things for the kids and give each one a little bag of Blades swag. The children are geeked.
I circulate among the children, helping maintain some semblance of order amid the excitement. When I turn from helping Zoe fold her newly signed jersey, Logan is suddenly beside me, his presence a warm, solid reality in my peripheral vision.
“Thank you for having us, Miss Thompson,” he says formally, loud enough for others to hear. But as he shakes my hand, his thumb skims my wrist—gentle, deliberate—and a shiver races up my arm. “Great classroom you have here.”
“Thank you for coming,” I reply, proud my voice holds, as cheeks flush again. “The children loved it.”
“Not just the children,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to catch. Then he winks—quick and subtle—before turning to follow his teammates.
I watch him go, Ezra trailing behind like a small shadow, reluctant to see his new friend leave. At the doorway, Logan crouches one more time to give Ezra a high five, his large hand engulfing the child’s smaller one with careful gentleness.
The classroom buzz refuses to settle, my students reliving every second of their hockey heroes’ visit while I busy myself with hands that still tingle from Logan’s touch. I plaster on my teacher smile, but inside, I’m rattled. Having him in my world was head spinning.
Tomorrow night, at the gala, we’ll see what happens when I’m in his.