Chapter 24 Reese
Reese
Iwatch Logan through the bathroom doorway, his movements precise and measured as steam fogs the mirror.
The razor glides down his jaw carefully, his eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the mirror.
Even from here, I can feel it—that intensity that settles over him on game days, turning my playful boyfriend into someone I barely recognize.
It's fascinating, really. The transformation happens so clearly I can almost chart its progress: first the quieter breakfast, then the longer shower, and now this—the ritual shave, where each stroke seems to peel away another layer of Logan McCoy, the boyfriend, and reveal Logan McCoy, the captain.
He rinses the blade with three quick taps against the sink—always three, never two or four. His shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles stand in a perfect line at the edge of the shower. He used his own products not trusting my fruity bargain-brand stuff for game day.
The tiles are cold beneath my bare feet as I pad into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. My old t-shirt barely covers the tops of my thighs. Logan's eyes flick to mine in the mirror, a brief acknowledgment before returning to the task at hand.
"Almost done?" I ask, though I know his routine by heart now. Shower. Shave. Moisturize. Dress in a specific order: underwear, socks (left first, then right), undershirt, dress shirt, pants. Tie knotted with the same number of adjustments. Jacket last.
"Five minutes," he says, voice distant yet soft, inhabiting that space between present and future. Between my apartment and the rink. Between the man and the player.
I retreat to the bedroom, straighten the sheets rumpled from our sleep. The suit he'll wear today hangs on the closet door—charcoal gray, crisp white shirt, blue tie with thin diagonal stripes. His “lucky” suit.
When he emerges, a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders, his hair is still damp, slicked back from his forehead.
That thousand-yard stare is in full effect now, eyes focused on some point beyond my bedroom walls.
Probably visualizing the game while he pulls on his boxers—the angles, the plays, the hit he wants to land on the guy who's been giving Benny trouble.
"Hey," I say softly, approaching as he reaches for his socks. "Come here a second."
He pauses, eyes finding focus on me for the first time this morning. His gaze softens slightly, the distance receding. "I'm getting dressed."
I wrap my arms around him from behind, my cheek against the broad, warm plane of his back. God, he smells so good. "We've got time," I murmur, hands sliding around to his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle, my fingers brushing lightly over his nipples.
I feel and hear him gasp. He drops his socks back to the bed and his hands cover mine, large and strong. For a moment, I think he'll pull them away, continue his routine without interruption. Instead, he turns in my arms, looking down at me with pupils noticeably dilated by arousal.
"Time for what?" he teases me, the question entirely rhetorical.
"How about a quickie?" My fingers trail down his stomach, toying with the waistband of his underwear. "For luck."
He’s smiling for the first time this morning.
Then he's kissing me, deep and hungry, all game-day focus suddenly channeled in my direction.
His hands are busy and warm from the shower, sliding under my shirt, cupping my breasts.
He returns the nipple teasing, gently pulling on them until I gasp against his mouth.
We stumble backward toward the bed, he makes a sound low in his throat when my hand slips inside his boxers and wraps around his cock.
"God, Reese," he breathes against my neck, laying me back on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency in his movements. His weight settles over me, one thigh pressing between mine as he slowly kisses a path from just behind my ear and down my neck. He knows that makes me wet.
My hands roam his shoulders, desperate to feel him. He pushes my t-shirt up to expose my breasts. He sucks on my nipples hungrily, making me arch beneath him.
I want him in me now, as his fingers push into the waistband of my panties, tugging them down over my hips. My legs part for him instinctively, welcoming him into my thighs. His boxers are still half-on, pushed down just enough, and I feel him hard and ready against me.
"Fuck me, Logan." I urge, pulling him closer. "Please."
His eyes lock with mine, and I see something I don’t recognize—desire warring with routine, want battling against superstition. Then his gaze drifts past me to the bedside clock, and everything changes.
"Shit," he mutters, body tensing. "Shit, I can't." He pulls back, breathing hard, a flush spreading across his chest and up his neck. "I'm already running late."
I reach for him as he stands, tugging his boxers back up over the beautiful erection that now has nowhere to go. "Five minutes," I plead, propping myself up on my elbows. "That's all I need. That's all you need."
His smile is strained, apologetic. "I can't, baby. Tonight, I promise." He's rushing now, grabbing his shirt from where it landed, tucking it in with hurried movements. His fingers are shaky from the sex and he fumbles with his buttons.
I flop back on the bed, frustrated but understanding. "Tonight," I echo, watching him transform back into the hockey player. The leader, the captain. The man with the weight of a playoff series on his shoulders.
He finishes dressing in record time, tightening his tie with three precise adjustments before slipping into his suit jacket. “You look so handsome.” I say, adjusting his tie that doesn’t need it.
As he turns and heads to the door, he pats his pockets—keys, phone, wallet—the inventory complete. He bends to kiss me, a quick press of lips that carries the promise of later.
He's gone in a rush of nervous energy, the door clicking shut behind him. I sit up, pushing hair from my face, when I spot it—his Rolex on the nightstand. His good luck charm, the watch he bought himself when he got his first big contract. He always wears it to the rink on gamedays.
I grab it and hurry to the window thinking I might catch his eye as he heads to his car in the street below, but I'm too late.
I watch as he slides behind the wheel, then just..
. sits there. His head drops forward against the steering wheel, shoulders sagging for a long, vulnerable moment.
The pressure of game one of the playoffs weighing on him.
Finally, he straightens, starts the engine, and pulls away. I stand at the window, the cool metal of his watch pressed against my palm, and wonder if my attempt to relax him this morning has done the opposite.
The so-called "Wives and Girlfriends" box at United Center buzzes with conversation.
Women in team-colored fashion, bearing her man's name and number, huddle together, sipping drinks and talking about anything other than hockey.
I sit slightly apart, perched at the edge of my seat with Logan's watch discreetly tucked in my jacket pocket. I keep touching it for luck.
It's been a whirlwind three weeks since the playoffs started.
Five games to sweep Nashville felt almost too easy—Logan playing with a confidence I'd never seen, the team rolling through their first-round opponent like they were meant for something bigger.
Then Dallas. That was different. Six brutal games, each one a war, back and forth until they finally closed it out at home four nights ago.
I watched every minute from this same seat.
And now Colorado. The Western Conference Finals. Win this series and one more, and they play for the Stanley Cup. The stakes have never been higher, and I can feel it in the energy of the building, in the nervous excitement of the other women around me, in the way my stomach twists with anxiety.
Down below, the players file onto the ice for warm-ups, and my eyes find Logan immediately, the tallest Blade on the ice.
Something's off though. I can see it in the way he’s moving. His usual fluidity seems mechanical, each push of his skates looks labored rather than the automatic grace I'm used to watching. He takes a pass from Benny, fumbles it slightly before regaining control, and shoots wide of the net.
Kovy’s beautiful blonde Ukrainian wife slides into the seat beside me, "Hello darling, Reese. You look beautiful tonight. How is playoff Logan treating you?"
"Thank you. So do you.” I say, touching her arm. “I’m good. I had no idea playoffs were so intense for them. No clue that he had another level of intensity. He was so incredibly focused this morning."
"I’m not surprised. They live for this. Kovy is the same way but he’s not the captain." she observes, following my gaze to where Logan is now stretching near the boards. "My husband says the pressure on Logan is enormous right now."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without betraying Logan. I decide against telling her how I watched him sit in his car this morning, head against the steering wheel, carrying a weight no one can see.
They'll be fine," she says with practiced confidence. "The boys are ready. They've been waiting all season for tonight.”
I wish I shared her certainty. Logan completes another lap, and I can see his eyes scanning the stands, looking for me in my usual spot before he spots me in the WAG suite. His mouth twitches with a silent greeting that only I would notice.
The buzzer sounds at the end of warm-ups, and the players file off the ice. Logan is last, as always, waiting for each of his teammates to leave the ice before exiting. That part of his superstitious routine will never leave him.
By the third period, my fingernails are bitten down to the quick. The game is tied 2-2, every shot, every save amplified by the stakes of the playoffs. The mood in the WAG box has shifted from social to silent—and tense.
"Come on, come on," I whisper, Logan's watch heavy in my pocket. I pull it out and squeeze it in my hand as if that might coax a bit of luck out of it. The arena throbs with nervous energy, the sellout crowd collectively holding their breath as the clock ticks down below three minutes.
I watch Logan hop over the boards for his shift, his movements sharper now, driven by adrenaline and desperation.
He positions himself perfectly at the point, stick ready as the Blades cycle the puck along the boards.
Kovy battles for possession in the corner, somehow managing to nudge it out to Benny, who slides a perfect pass up to Logan at the point.
Their forward trips and falls which allows Logan to pinch all the way down to the top of dots.
The crowd rises in a single, fluid motion as Logan sauces a pass back over to Benny as the defense changes direction to rush that way.
The goalie is scrambling to get back into position on the other side, as Benny sends it back to Logan where a nearly empty net yawns unprotected. Logan has a wide-open shot.
His stick comes down to shoot and—he misses. The puck slides untouched beneath his blade. The crowd goes silent for a heartbeat, then erupts in a groan that seems to suck the air out of the building. Logan looks down in disbelief, his body frozen in the follow-through of a shot that never happened.
Colorado recovers the untouched puck, their transition game deadly as they push up ice with numbers. Logan tries to get back, but he's caught flat-footed, still processing his miss as one of their forwards streaks down the ice for a breakaway. The shot is quick, precise, and finds the top corner.
3-2.
The remaining ninety seconds are a blur of pulled goalie and desperate attempts, but the score holds. Game over.
The WAGs around me offer sympathetic hugs and smiles knowing how tough this will be for Logan.
"They'll get 'em in St. Louis," and "Plenty of hockey left to play," and "We just need one.
" I nod mechanically, already calculating how long before I’ll be with Logan, already rehearsing what I'll say to comfort him.
It's well after midnight when he’s finally home. I open the door to find him standing there in his suit, tie loosened, eyes exhausted. Without a word, he steps inside, dropping his bag by the door and heading straight for the couch.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, knowing he probably hasn't eaten since the pre-game meal.
He shakes his head, already reaching for the remote. "I need to see it again."
I busy myself in the kitchen, making popcorn he probably won't eat, giving him space while staying close. When I return to the living room, he's got game footage pulled up on his iPad, the play already frozen at the moment just before his missed shot.
"Here," he says, voice flat. "Watch this."
I sit beside him, placing the bowl between us, as he presses play. The sequence unfolds in agonizing slow motion—the pass, the wide-open net, the whiff. He rewinds and plays it again. And again. Each time, his jaw clenches tight.
"I lost us our home ice advantage," he says unprompted, eyes never leaving the screen.
"What?"
“When the team with home ice loses at home, the odds are evened out. You have to protect home ice. Each team now has 3 games at home in a seven game series. It’s my fault we lost.” He pauses the footage at the exact moment he misses the puck. "I had the game on my stick."
I place my hand on his knee, feeling the tension vibrating through him.
"It's my fault." His voice cracks slightly. "My boys battled with everything they had for fifty-eight minutes, and I couldn’t deliver when I had a wide-open net."
He presses play again in some kind of masochistic ritual that might magically erase the game’s outcome. I gently take the remote from his hand and turn off the TV.
“Let’s go to bed, handsome.” We stand and head to the bedroom.
As I drift off to sleep, I'm remembering the scene from this morning—my arms around him, his body responding to mine, the connection between us that was so abruptly cut short.