Chapter 3
LOGAN
Coach
Think hard about the choices you make tonight
I stare at the text message from Coach Wilson again, furious with myself for letting him get under my skin.
I only ever make excellent choices.
And it’s my fucking birthday.
But it’s not like being born on New Year’s Eve has ever been good luck before. Why start now?
Sometimes I think I’m cursed, because I’m the only one of my siblings who was conceived in a year our father didn’t make the playoffs.
But I’m also the Granger kid who has only ever played regular season hockey. My three brothers? They’ve all played playoff games. Even our baby sister has had a taste of hockey excellence, at both collegiate and Olympic levels.
Not me, though. Not the kid who was conceived in the first week of April, instead of June like everyone else.
Coincidence? I don’t think so.
So now it’s New Year’s Eve, aka my birthday, and for the tenth year in a row, my team is dead last in the division.
Destined to not make the playoffs, again.
It’s not because I suck at hockey, either.
I’m on pace for forty goals this year. Or I was, before my asshole coach healthy scratched me out of yesterday’s game, because he didn’t like my performance before and after the Christmas break.
I take a screenshot of the message, and then start to type out a question to the two guys on the team I’m closest with, Coop and Toth. Did you get this message from Coach?
But then I delete it before hitting send.
I don’t want them to think I’m pissy, even if I am.
And if he did send it to everyone…fine.
If he didn’t, and it actually was personal…I don’t want to fucking know that tonight.
The plane ride to Vegas was tense. I know I should shake it off. Tomorrow is another game. We’re halfway through the season, and at this point, it should be routine. I’m getting paid well to play hockey for a living. I know that I’m lucky.
I should be out with my teammates right now. Given our shitty performance lately, everyone is grateful that we didn’t have a curfew tonight.
If the rest of them didn’t get a nastygram from Coach, it might be because he thinks I’ll police the others.
Joke’s on him.
I’m not going out with anyone else. My choices tonight? They’re for me and me alone.
New Year’s Eve in Vegas, baby. This is the dream for professional athletes who don’t actually have much on the line in tomorrow’s game. I’m going to let my teammates make their own choices and not fucking worry about it.
“Another gin and tonic, please,” I say to the bartender, hunching my shoulders up around my ears.
I flip over to my sibling group chat, where everyone in my family is three hours ahead of me and already celebrating the new year.
I put some reaction hearts on their messages, then I drop my phone to the bar top with a clatter.
Except I’m a little too vigorous and it tumbles to the floor.
Kneeling, I pick it up as a compact blonde woman strides in, beelining for the bar.
She’s wearing a white satin dress that skims across the middle of her thighs, revealing strong legs and tapered calves.
Her high heels have a cute ankle strap, and I think I catch a glimpse of a little tattoo behind the buckle.
Pretty girl, I think as I slowly rise. She turns her back to me as she hops up onto a barstool.
Another tattoo decorates her back. This one is clearly a stethoscope.
Interesting.
My stool creaks as I sit down again, and she whirls her head around, blonde waves sliding over her shoulder.
Gold-flecked brown eyes go wide when she sees me just two seats away. “Where did you come from?”
I hold that glittering gaze, wanting to fall into it. Grateful that she’s not looking away, even if she’s startled. Hello, gorgeous.
I hold up my phone. “Dropped this. So I was on the floor.”
She exhales shakily. “Ah.”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
She lifts one shoulder as if to say it’s fine, then gives the bartender her full attention. I go back to my phone, but I hear her order a glass of Prosecco.
“Happy New Year,” the bartender says as he sets it in front of her.
She snorts.
“Stupid Fucking New Year,” I mutter. That would be the G&T talking.
But she laughs unexpectedly, and agrees with me. “Exactly.”
And then she sighs. Pretty girl like her, all dressed up…she wanted her New Year’s Eve to go differently.
“It’s my birthday,” I add, unnecessarily. But I want to explain why I’m not a fan of this holiday.
She lifts her glass in my direction. “Happy birthday.”
“Not really.”
She smirks. “Stupid fucking birthday?”
“That’s more like it.” I swirl my drink around in my glass, then take a big swallow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her tip her head to the side. Examining me.
Maybe I can make her night better. I shift sideways.
She slides her gaze down my body, taking in my tailored suit, my unbuttoned shirt collar.
“Are you an asshole?” she asks.
I can see why she might ask that, given the profanity. “I try not to be.”
There’s a beat of hesitation, then a flare of something like…fuck it.
And I do love a good fuck it.
“Francesca,” she says, holding out her hand.
I stand up, enjoying the way she looks surprised at how tall I am, and I step closer, leaning against the bar. “I’m Logan. Nice to meet you. Are you Italian?”
She shakes her head. “It’s a long story.”
“I got all the time in the world.”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not my favorite story.” She hesitates. “It was a compromise name between my parents, and they aren’t my favorite topic.”
“Say no more. Parents can be off-limits.”
She laughs. “And what do you do, Logan?”
Now it’s my turn to make a face. “Currently, not my favorite story.”
“Ah, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just a tough week that I’d rather not think about.”
She winks. “Then jobs can be off-limits.”
“We’re rapidly spiralling toward having nothing to talk about, Francesca.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She licks her lips and takes a deep breath. “How long are you in Vegas?”
“Flew in yesterday. Fly out tomorrow.”
“And you aren’t doing anything special for New Year’s?”
“I’m here for work. And my co-workers are the last people I want to spend time with tonight, so…”
“Same.” She exhales and slumps against the bar. “Not co-workers for me. My dad and my friends.”
“Your dad and your friends? Damn, that’s a lot of people to disappoint you.”
“Oh, to be clear, my friends didn’t—” She cuts herself off and wags her finger at me. “You’re sneaky at that.”
“At what?”
“Pulling details out of a girl.” She drains her glass.
I zip my lips shut and gesture for the bartender.
When he comes over, Francesca glances my way. I gesture to my mouth, my voluntary muteness and she laughs. “I’ll have another glass of Prosecco and Logan here will have…”
I hold up two fingers.
“He’ll have a glass with me,” she finishes.
When we’re alone again, she smiles, her full lips curving into a teasing pout. “You can talk again.”
I exaggerate my relief. “Oh thank God, that was torture.”
She laughs. “So how old are you tonight?”
“Thirty.”
“Logan! That’s a milestone!”
I shrug. Winning a Cup is the only milestone a Granger cares about. To me, turning thirty just means I’m officially more than halfway through my pro hockey career with nothing but a very healthy bank account to show for it.
I finish my gin, then push that glass away. “How about you, Francesca? What’s your next milestone?”
A flare of heat slashes across the tops of her cheeks. Big reaction for a little woman. It’s a loaded question, apparently. She squares her shoulders. “I’m going to graduate from medical school in June.”
“No shit.” The girl’s going to be a doctor. And suddenly, I have a thing for smart girls. “I wish I hadn’t finished my drink. That’s worth toasting.”
Right on cue, the bartender sets two glasses of Prosecco in front of us.
“To Dr. Francesca,” I say, lifting one in the air.
She clinks her glass against mine. “Thank you.”
“And where is med school?”
This time, she doesn’t comment on my curiosity. “California.”
“I love California.”
She raises an eyebrow, as if to say, oh really? “Where is work?”
I shake my head. “Rarely in California.”
“But not never…” She laughs. “Now I’m the one who is fishing for more details about thirty-year-old Logan from Not California.”
“I travel all over the place. Once or twice a year, that includes California. But mostly I’m on the east coast.”
“I hate the east coast.” It spills out of her, and her eyes go wide. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m a Midwest boy born and raised. Minnesota.”
“Oh really? That’s a small world. I lived in Minneapolis for a year when I was little. I don’t remember much about it, but I like cheese!”
“That’s more Wisconsin.”
She laughs. “I tried.”
“We have lakes. And a lot of Birkenstocks.”
“I love a nice Birkenstock.”
“Now you’re just trying to make nice.”
“No, I’m serious. Especially when it’s kind of cool outside, and you can wear socks and Birks…” Her eyes are dancing. “I’m serious.”
“I know. You said it twice, so you must be.” I shrug. “I like comfortable clothes, too. I’ll run errands in sweatpants and slides.”
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re a jock.”
Slight understatement. “It’s that obvious?”
She snorts. “I know the type. Athletic scholarship that pays for a business school degree.”
“Wait, you say that like it’s a mark against me.”
“Well, that depends. I might need to ask more questions about your politics and principles.”
I grin. “Okay. I don’t mind. But I think it’s funny that it matters so much when I never visit your state, but—”
“Not never.”
I swallow some Prosecco to keep from laughing at her. With her. This is fun. “What do you mean?”
“You said you never never visit my state. But once or twice a year isn’t never. It’s rarely.”
“Ah, good point. Rarely.” I wink at her. “If I get it right next time, will you give me a gold star and call me a good boy?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’d like that.”
“I really would.”
She lifts her flute to her mouth. “Mmm.”
“I can read, you know.”
“Sure.” She winks.
I just smile back. If she thinks I might not like being challenged, that’s not the kind of guy I am.
“What’s the last book you read?” she asks when I don’t say anything else.
“The gin and tonic is making it difficult to remember,” I confess. I don’t add that 85% of my brain power is still stuck on trying to figure out what her ankle tattoo is.
But when she winces, I realize how that sounds.
Now it’s my turn to wink. “That’s bad, right?”
“I mean...” She tilts her head, trying to get a read on me. “It’s not great.”
“Okay.” I lean forward slightly. “Tell me what book I should read next.”
“Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Either.”
“Fantasy?”
“If you think I should.”
“I think you should pick books you like.”
“I do.”
“I thought you couldn’t remember the last book you read.”
“Also true.”
She laughs and shakes her head.
“Hang on, I keep a list.” I open the notes app on my phone.
She slides closer.
“Whoa, top secret,” I say, not trying to hide the screen.
“Winged Victory and Talon Blade?” She looks at me in surprise. “You’ve read those?”
“They’re two of the most popular books of the last decade.”
“They’re all long.”
“I spend a lot of time on planes.”
“What order is this list in?”
“I add books at the bottom.”
“So the most recent book you read is…” She reaches over and swipes down the screen. “Hang on, you’ve read a lot of books. On Tyranny? You read that?”
“Yeah. It’s good. Important to read in these current times.”
“You read all these books,” she repeats, swiping up and down again.
“Not all this year.”
“Oh thank God.”
“I think I started this list a year ago September.”
She groans. “So you’ve read like…fifty books in the last sixteen months?”
I grin. “Got you.”
“You did, good boy,” she murmurs. And fuck if my cock doesn’t twitch in delight as she fights a smile. Her mouth is so fucking expressive, I love it. I think I love her, already, and that’s dangerous. “I’ve only read maybe ten books this year, not including studying.”
I set my glass down, then nudge my knuckles against hers on the bar top. “Favorite book of the year?”
“The Mist At Dawn’s Edge,” she says immediately.
It’s a romantasy that I started to listen to in audio and gave up on, so it didn’t make my list.
“Haven’t read that one yet,” I manage to say with a straight face. I’m not going to tell her I didn’t like it if it was her favorite of the year. If she loved it, I’ll find something to love about it, too.
“It’s a little slow at the start, but there’s something about the way she writes that’s so beautiful.”
Curious, I flip to my books app and download it.
On the page, the first sentence is more interesting than I remember it being in audio. Same with the second. Or maybe it’s just because I know Francesca likes this book, that might be it.
Fuck, it could also be the gin.
“Yeah, okay, this is good,” I say, sliding her a smile before flicking my gaze back to the book on my phone.
She laughs. “Reading at a bar on New Year’s Eve is peak antisocial.”
“Oh?” I look up from the screen, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know we were being social.”
“We’re not,” she says.
We. I like the sound of that.
I angle my phone so she can read along with me, and the happy sigh she makes when we get to the moment the female main character meets the asshole guy who’s going to glower at her for the next four hundred pages—but not let anyone else glower at her, I’m sure—is worth the price of the ebook right then and there.
There’s a fight scene next, and when they win that little skirmish, we cheers our Prosecco glasses.
Then I put my phone away. “I’ll read it on the plane tomorrow night.”
“You can keep reading now if you want.” She winks at me. “It’s your birthday. You should get anything you want?”
“Anything?”
“Within reason.”
Ah, that’s dangerous. I hook my fingertips under hers and lift her hand to my mouth. “How about a kiss?”