Chapter Eighteen
Gummy Worms
Winnie
The flight from Boston to Philadelphia is short—barely an hour in the air—but it feels longer when you’re trapped with thirty hockey players.
Most of the guys are asleep or pretending to be, headphones in, heads tipped back against their seats. The coaching staff is huddled near the front, reviewing game tape on a laptop. Banks is somewhere in the back, probably brooding or napping or doing whatever it is Banks does when he’s alone.
I’m in the middle, scrolling through my phone, trying not to think about his hands or his shoulders or the way he looked at me this morning.
“This seat taken?”
Logan drops into the empty seat beside me before I can answer, all lanky limbs and eager energy. He’s got a bag of gummy worms and a grin that suggests he’s about to talk my ear off.
“It is now, apparently.”
“Great. I’m bored. Entertain me.”
I lift one brow. “I’m not entertainment.”
“You’re more entertaining than staring at the back of Zayden’s head, trust me.” He offers me a gummy worm. “Want one?”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“So.” He settles in, pulling one leg up onto the seat like a kid. “How’s the relationship going? You and Banks? I still can’t believe it. Like, Banks. Our Banks. The guy who grunts instead of talks. Dating a real human woman.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I mean it as a compliment. You’ve completely transformed him. He almost smiled at warmup yesterday. Almost. It was terrifying but also beautiful.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “Love is real.”
“Logan.”
“I’m just saying, you two are cute. Very ‘grumpy and sunshine.’ Very—”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Rarely.” He grins. “It’s part of my charm.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. Logan is exhausting, but in a good way. Like a puppy who doesn’t know he’s too big for your lap.
“Hey, want to see something?” He pulls out his phone, swiping through photos.
“I just bought a duplex as an investment property. My financial advisor said I needed to diversify my portfolio, and I was like, ‘What’s a portfolio?’ But then he showed me this place, and it’s got two units, and I’m going to live in one side and rent out the other, and—”
“Logan. Breathe.”
He takes a breath. Then keeps going. “Anyway, look. Isn’t it nice?”
He shows me the listing. It’s a charming brownstone in Brooklyn, well-maintained, with a small front yard and matching bay windows on each side.
“That’s actually really nice,” I admit.
“Right? I move in next month. Already got a tenant for the other side—some grad student. A girl, I think? I haven’t met her yet. My realtor handled everything.” He swipes to another photo. “This is my kitchen. I’m going to learn to cook. How hard can it be?”
I chuckle at his optimism. “You’re going to burn the place down.”
“Probably. But I’ll look good doing it.” He grins. “Oh, and get this—two of the new rookies are moving in with me. We’re going to be like a frat house, except professional athletes, so classier.”
“That’s… a lot of energy in one building.”
“It’s going to be amazing. Or a disaster. Either way, content for the group chat.” He shoves another gummy worm in his mouth. “You should come over when we’re settled. Housewarming party. I’ll make sure Banks is invited so you two can be adorable in my living room.”
“We’re not adorable.”
“You’re extremely adorable. Accept it.”
I’m saved from responding by a commotion a few rows up. Someone’s phone is ringing—loud, insistent—and there’s shuffling as they try to answer it.
Archer.
He’s pressed against the window, phone to his ear, voice low but tight. I can’t hear the words, but his body language says everything. Shoulders hunched. Jaw clenched. Hand gripping the seat in front of him like he’s trying not to break something.
“Trouble in paradise,” Logan murmurs, following my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“Archer and Bree. Things have been… rough.” He lowers his voice. “The travel, the twins, the schedule. She was home alone with two toddlers a lot.”
I watch Archer end the call, staring at his phone in his hand. He looks exhausted. Not just tired—depleted. Like he’s running on fumes and willpower.
“That’s hard,” I say quietly.
“Yeah. He doesn’t talk about it, but you can tell.” Logan’s usual brightness dims slightly. “I hope they figure it out. He’s a good guy. And those kids are adorable.”
Archer shoves his phone in his pocket and tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed. He looks like a man carrying a heavy weight.
I make a mental note to check on him. Maybe during the next yoga session. Sometimes people need someone to notice.
“Anyway,” Logan says, bouncing back to his usual energy, “back to my duplex. What color should I paint the living room? I’m thinking something bold. Like orange.”
“Please don’t paint your living room orange.”
“What about lime green?”
“Logan.”
“You’re right. Too subtle. I need something that really pops.”
I spend the next hour talking Logan out of various terrible design choices while Banks sleeps in the back and the sky blurs past in an endless gray ribbon.
A few more days of this road trip. A few more days of pretending I’m not falling for someone I’m not supposed to fall for.
No problem.