Chapter 5
Logan
The gym at the Renegades facility is empty by four o'clock. Most of the guys clear out after the morning session, but I stayed for an extra hour on the foam roller, working the knots out of my lower back.
My back has been tight all week. It gets like that during the season due to the toll of blocking shots and absorbing hits, night after night. The trainers tell me to manage it, and Dad tells me to push through it. I do both.
I grab my bag from the locker room, say goodbye to Lane, the head athletic trainer, who's the only other person still here, and drive home.
My apartment is in the West 60s, a one-bedroom in a prewar building with high ceilings. I picked it because it's quiet and clean. It’s also fifteen minutes from the arena and an hour from Long Island.
I take the elevator up and unlock my front door. The smell of food hits me before I'm through the doorway.
Mom is in my kitchen.
She's at the counter unpacking a canvas tote bag full of glass containers.
There are already six of them lined up on the counter. Soup, what looks like a pasta bake, grilled chicken portions, and a container of roasted vegetables. The fridge is open, and she's rearranged the shelves.
My protein shakes are on the bottom shelf now instead of the top. The leftover Thai food I ordered two days ago is gone.
“You threw out my Thai food,” I say.
“It was old, Logan. How long was that in there?”
“Two days.”
“That's too long for takeout. You don't know what's in that stuff.” She holds up a glass container of soup. “I made chicken and vegetable. It's good for your joints.”
I set my gym bag down by the door. “You don't have to do this, Mom.”
“I know I don't have to, but I like doing it.” She opens my freezer and starts stacking containers inside. “You looked tired at the game on Wednesday.”
“I always look like that.”
“Are you sleeping?” She asks, ignoring what I just said. “You need at least eight hours during the season. Your father read an article about sleep and recovery in hockey players.”
“I'm sleeping fine.”
She closes the freezer, turns around, and looks at me the way she used to look at me before games when I was twelve, checking if I'd eaten enough and slept enough. I'm twenty-eight years old, and she still does it.
“I also brought groceries,” she continues. “Eggs, whole wheat bread, and those Greek yogurts you like. Oh, and bananas too. You never buy fruit.”
I frown a little. “I buy fruit.”
“You buy apples, and you let them go brown on the counter.” She folds the canvas tote and sets it on the counter. “There. You're set for the week. All you have to do is heat it up.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
I’m itching for her to leave. I want to take my time getting ready for drinks with Jasmine, but Mom doesn’t seem to be a rush. She runs her hand along the counter and adjusts the hand towel hanging from the oven handle.
“The apartment looks nice,” she says. “A little bare, but nice. It doesn't have personality, though. You've lived here for three years, and there's nothing on the walls. No photos or artwork. There’s no sign that says someone lives here.”
I’m not interested in interior décor. All that matters is that I have a place to call home. But I keep my thoughts to myself. If I voice them, it will turn into a conversation about how I should let her help me decorate.
She picks up her purse from the counter and loops it over her arm. “So what are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing much.”
“Stay in? Rest?”
“Probably.”
She nods and buttons her coat. “Good. You need to rest. Dad wants to go over the game film from Wednesday with you on Sunday, so be prepared for that.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Can’t wait.”
“Don't be sarcastic, Logan. He's trying to help.” She stops at the door. “Sunday dinner?”
“I'll be there.”
She reaches up and pats my cheek. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
“I will, Mom.”
She leaves. The door clicks shut behind her, and the apartment is quiet again. I check the time. Four-thirty. I have an hour and a half before I need to leave.
I shower and stand in front of my closet to pick out what to wear. I pull on dark jeans, a gray Henley, and a leather jacket.
My phone rings, and I grab it from the night table.
It’s Blake. “Hey, want to go out for a drink?”
“Can’t. Jasmine and I are meeting in half an hour,” I say.
“Wow, you work fast,” Blake says with a laugh, then he grows serious. “You think this is a good idea considering your history?”
Any rational person would steer clear. You don't go for drinks with the woman you walked away from and expect it to be simple. But seeing Jasmine at the sponsor event and talking to her like no time had passed reminded me how much I enjoyed being around her.
She was my best friend before she was my girlfriend. I've had friends and my brothers, but nobody has ever made me feel as easy in my own skin as Jasmine did. “I want us to be friends again. I've missed her friendship.”
“Sure you do,” Blake says. “I've seen the woman, and she's gorgeous. No man in his right mind would want to be ‘just friends’.”
“Guess what? Not all of us think with our dicks first,” I say.
“That's your problem right there. When was the last time you got laid, Shaw? And your right hand doesn't count.”
“Goodbye, Blake.”
“I'm serious. You live like a monk. Hockey's great, but it doesn't come with soft thighs and a warm body next to you at two in the morning. Go have a drink with the beautiful woman. And if the opportunity presents itself to be more than friends, for the love of God, take it.”
Damn you, Blake.
His words bring back memories from the past.
Jasmine in my bedroom on Long Island with the door locked and the TV on loud enough to cover the sounds she made.
We were each other's firsts and clumsy at first, but we figured it out fast. I figured out that she lost her mind when I sucked on her nipples, slow, teasing, until she was pulling my hair and cursing at me.
I also learned that if I put my head between her legs and blew a warm breath across her pussy before I even touched her with my tongue, her back would arch off the bed and she’d make a sound that I can still hear in my sleep.
I remember every detail. The taste of her. The weight of her thighs on my shoulders. The way she moaned and cried out my name. It was intoxicating.
My dick grows hard. I immediately think about Dad's game film breakdown. Nothing kills an erection faster than my father's coaching advice.
“Have fun tonight,” Blake says and hangs up.
I order an Uber and start making my way down. Excitement courses through me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about meeting someone for drinks. But this isn’t just anyone. It’s Jasmine Bennett.
Twenty minutes later, the Uber deposits me outside the bar. The End Zone is on a side street in the East Village that most people walk past without noticing. It’s wedged between a laundromat and a Thai place.
Inside, it's small, maybe thirty seats, dim lighting, exposed brick, and a bar made from reclaimed wood.
I found this place two years ago when I was looking for somewhere I wouldn't be recognized. The bartender is a guy named Miles who knows I play hockey and has never once mentioned it. He pours my drinks and leaves me alone, and that is the entire basis of our relationship.
I'm ten minutes early. I take a seat at the bar and order a beer. Miles sets it down without a word.
The door opens at six on the dot, and Jasmine walks in. She's in a fitted black coat over a cream blouse and dark jeans and ankle boots. Her hair is down, those black waves falling past her shoulders. I still remember how soft and silky her hair was.
She scans the room, and on seeing me at the counter, she strides across the room. A few people turn to stare. Jasmine always had presence, but now it’s increased tenfold.
“Hey,” I say, standing up from my stool.
“Hey.” She smells incredible, a heady mix of musk and amber.
“You look great,” I say.
“Thank you.” She sits on the stool beside me and signals Miles. “Do you have a French 75?”
Miles nods and starts mixing. Jasmine sets her bag on the bar, and for a few seconds neither of us says anything. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it's full of things we want to say but don't know how to start.
Miles sets her cocktail down, and she takes a sip.
“You did it,” I finally say.
She looks at me. “Did what?”
“You said you were going to be a lawyer. You did it.”
“You remember?” The words come out a little stunned.
I nod. “We were sitting on the bleachers after one of my games, and you said you were going to law school, and I asked why, and you said because nobody argues with a lawyer.”
Her mouth curves. “I said that?”
“Word for word. And you did it.”
She grins. “Yeah, I did. It wasn't pretty, though.”
“Tell me.”
She tells me about undergrad at NYU, how she worked two jobs and studied at the same time, and managed to graduate with honors.
If things had been different, I would have been in the audience the day she walked across that stage. I would have been the idiot in the third row on his feet, clapping and yelling.
Lorraine must have been out of her mind with pride. Her only child, whom she raised alone on a retail salary, walked across a stage at NYU in a cap and gown.
Jasmine tells me about the LSAT, which she took twice because she wasn't satisfied with her first score, even though it was high enough for every school she applied to.
“Which was your first job?” I ask her. I want to know everything, plus I love the sound of her voice and how she talks while gesturing.
She might look different, but some things stayed the same, I guess.
“A small practice in Midtown. Three partners, six associates, and a coffee machine that broke every other week. The pay was terrible and the hours were worse, but I learned more there in two years than I did in three years of law school.”
“What made you leave?” I ask.