Chapter 6
Jasmine
The boutique smells like lavender and fresh fabric. Mom has a diffuser behind the register that she refills every morning, and the scent hits me the second I walk through the door.
It's Saturday, and the shop is quiet. A woman in a green coat is browsing the dresses near the window, and Mom is behind the counter, sorting through a box of new arrivals with her reading glasses on the tip of her nose.
“There she is,” Mom says without looking up. “I was about to send a search party.”
“I'm ten minutes late.”
“Fifteen. But who's counting?” She pushes the box toward me. “Spring line. Help me tag these.”
I drop my bag behind the counter and pull up a stool. The box is full of wrap dresses in jewel tones. Emerald, sapphire, and a deep burgundy that I already know will be gone by Tuesday. Mom has an eye for what sells. She orders carefully, and she's right more often than she's wrong.
I grab the pricing gun and start tagging.
Mom works beside me, smoothing fabric, checking seams, holding each dress up to the light before she approves it for the floor.
She rejects a sapphire one with a crooked hem and sets it aside for alterations.
Nothing goes on the rack unless it meets her standard.
“How's work?” she asks.
“Busy. I've got a new account. It’s a big one,” I say.
“That's my girl. What is it?” she says happily.
“The New York Renegades.”
Her hands stop moving. She's holding a burgundy wrap dress, and her fingers tighten on the fabric. “Isn’t that the team that Logan Shaw plays for?”
I keep my eyes on the pricing gun. “Yes, Mom. Logan plays for the Renegades.”
She sets the dress down on the counter,, takes off her reading glasses, and folds them slowly. When my mother folds her glasses slowly, a lecture is coming.
“Have you seen him?”
“There was a sponsor event last week. He was there and we talked,” I say with a shrug, as if it was no big deal.
“How did it feel seeing him again after ten years?”
“It felt fine. We're adults.”
Mom picks the dress back up, shakes it out, and drapes it over a hanger. She doesn't look at me while she does it, which is how I know she has more to say, and she's choosing her moment.
“Do you remember what those people did to you?” she asks.
“Of course I do.”
“Do you remember what that woman said to you about hockey families and certain kinds of women? And what did that boy do? He packed his bags, got on a plane, and never looked back.”
I swallow hard. It hurt terribly at the time, but I did get over it and moved on with my life. But I guess for my mother, it’s still very raw.
“Then you don't need me to tell you to be careful,” Mom says.
“But I'm going to tell you anyway.” She hangs the dress on the rack and straightens it until it falls perfectly.
“Be careful, Jasmine. That family has a way of making you feel like you belong right up until they decide you don't. I won't sit through that again, and neither will you.”
The woman in the green coat approaches the counter with two blouses, and Mom shifts into shopkeeper mode, warm and attentive, asking about sizes and recommending a scarf to go with the cream one.
I finish tagging the rest of the dresses and carry them to the floor and arrange them by color on the rack near the fitting rooms.
My mother is my protector, loudest critic, and my safest place. She held me together when Logan left and built me back up piece by piece—she’s earned the right to say whatever she wants about the Shaws.
We order turkey and avocado sandwiches from the deli two doors down and eat them on paper plates in the back room, surrounded by boxes and garment bags.
“Any drama this week?” I ask, unwrapping my sandwich. Mom always has stories. The boutique is a small universe of women and their problems.
“Mrs. Wilson came in on Tuesday wanting to return that red shift dress she bought last month. She said it didn't fit right.”
“A month later?”
“Yeah. And the dress smelled like perfume, and it had champagne stains. That woman wore that dress to a wedding and brought it back like I wouldn't notice,” Mom says.
“What did you do?”
“I told her we don't accept returns on items that have been worn. She turned the color of the dress and left.”
I burst out laughing, imagining the stern expression on my mother’s face as she chastised Mrs. Wilson.
“And then there's Mrs. Ford,” Mom says. “She comes in every Wednesday at two o'clock, like clockwork, tries on five or six outfits, but she never buys a thing.”
“That doesn't bother you?” I ask, knowing I would not have that kind of patience.
“Baby, that woman's husband died last year, and her kids live in California. She comes here because she needs somewhere to go and someone to talk to. If trying on dresses for an hour makes her feel good, she can try on every dress in this shop.”
When I leave at three, Mom hugs me at the door and holds on a beat longer than usual. “Be smart. I love you.”
“I'm always smart,” I quip.
“You're smart about everything except the things that can hurt you. That's where I come in.”
I kiss her cheek and head out to my car.
The Renegades are playing at home tonight, and Harper texted the group chat this morning to ask who was going. Avery and Natalie are in. Since I took on the Renegades account, Wilder arranged a standing seat for me in the corporate suite whenever I need to attend a game for work.
It's comfortable and private and has an excellent view of the sponsor signage, which is exactly what it's designed for. Tonight I don't need to be here for work. Harper and the girls are planning drinks after the game, so I text her back and tell her to save me a seat.
After a shower, I change into a pair of jeans and a fitted black turtleneck, finishing my look off with my favorite gold hoops and boots. I keep my makeup light and leave my hair down.
An hour later, I’m in a cab headed uptown.
The arena is packed. Saturday night hockey in New York draws a full house. Music pounds through the speakers, the ice gleams under the lights, and twenty thousand people are filing into their seats with beers and hot dogs, most of them in Renegades jerseys.
The rest of the fans are wearing Nashville Sinners’ red and white jerseys.
Harper has seats in the family section in the lower bowl, a few rows behind the glass, near the tunnel on the Renegades bench side. It's reserved for players' wives, girlfriends, and families, which means George and Cat Shaw could be sitting a few rows away from me on any given night.
I push that thought aside and make my way down.
Harper is already there with Avery and Olivia when I arrive. Olivia has baby Maya on her lap, bouncing her on her knee while Maya chews on a stuffed Renegades bear. Natalie slides in a few minutes later, squeezing past knees and apologizing for being late due to traffic.
Hugs are exchanged. Harper hands me a beer.
“How are the guys feeling about this season?” Natalie asks. “Ethan won't say much, but I can tell he's wound tight.”
“Cole's the same,” Harper says. “He doesn't bring it home, but I can see it. After that first-round exit last year, there's pressure on all of them to prove it was a fluke.”
“Liam acts like nothing bothers him,” Avery says. “But he's been going to the gym at six in the morning, which is not normal for a man who considers ten a.m. an early start. He's feeling it too.”
“What about Logan?” Natalie asks, turning to me. “Harper told us you two grew up together. Childhood sweethearts, right? What happened? Why did you stop dating?”
So Harper told them we dated, but didn't tell them how it ended. I could kiss her for that.
“Life took us in different directions. It was a long time ago.”
“And now you're working on his team's account?” Avery says. “That's wild.”
I shrug once. “Small world.”
“Is it weird seeing him again?” Olivia asks.
“It was at first. But we've talked, and it's fine. We're friends.”
Natalie nods, and the conversation moves on to Theo's obsession with a new protein powder that makes everything taste like chalk.
The teams take the ice for warm-ups, and the crowd noise swells.
I scan the Renegades players as they skate in lazy circles, stretching and shooting pucks at the net.
Cole is at center ice talking to Liam. Theo is near the boards doing some kind of stretching routine.
Blake is firing wrist shots from the blue line.
And then Logan comes out of the tunnel.
He skates to the far end of the ice and starts his warm-up alone, working the edges, moving laterally, testing his back. His focus is total. He doesn't look at the crowd or even acknowledge the fans calling his name from behind the glass.
He's already in game mode, locked in, sealed off from everything that isn't the ice underneath his skates.
The game starts, and it's fast. The Renegades are playing the Nashville Sinners tonight. Cole scores in the first period, and the building erupts.
Liam sets up the second goal with a pass through three defenders that makes Harper grab my arm. Natalie is explaining the offside rule to Avery, who nods politely and clearly doesn't care about the technicalities as long as Liam keeps scoring.
Logan plays for twenty-two minutes. He's physical, shutting down the Nashville forwards with clean hits and smart positioning. He blocks a shot in the second period and limps back to the bench. My stomach clenches, but he's back on the ice the next shift like nothing happened.
The Renegades win 4-1, and the crowd files out buzzing.
Harper is on her phone as we push through the concourse. “The guys are going to Gordy's Pub. Cole just texted. You in?”
“I'm in,” Avery says.
“Me too,” Natalie says.
Olivia shifts Maya onto her hip. “I need to get this one home. You girls have fun.”
She hugs us goodbye and heads toward the parking garage with Maya already half asleep on her shoulder. The rest of us walk out into the cold and flag a cab.
We stop at a diner a block from the bar and grab fries and sodas while we wait for the guys to shower and change. By the time Harper's phone buzzes with Cole’s message, I've eaten enough fries to undo every spin class I've taken this year.
Gordy's Pub is all dark wood and soft lighting, with deep booths along the walls and a long marble-topped bar. It's upscale enough to attract a crowd that minds its own business, which I guess is why the guys love it.
Half the team is already there. Cole has claimed a corner booth. Liam and Jake are at the bar while Theo is squeezed into a booth with Blake and his girlfriend, Mia.
Logan is at the far end of the bar. He's changed into jeans and a dark sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, leaving his muscular forearms on display. He’s holding a beer and listening to something Ryan is saying with a hint of a smile.
I force myself to look away.
We make our way inside, and Harper steers us toward Cole's booth. Hugs are exchanged, drinks are ordered, and the noise of the bar swallows us. Liam appears with a tray of shots and announces that everyone is doing one whether they like it or not.
Natalie declines, and Avery takes two. I take one and throw it back. The tequila burns a line down my throat.
I don't look at Logan, but I know exactly where he is.
He's still at the bar. He's moved from Ryan to Blake, and they're standing shoulder to shoulder. Blake's girlfriend Mia has joined them, and she's doing most of the talking while Blake and Logan drink and nod.
He turns, and our gazes meet. Logan raises his beer an inch off the bar. I raise my glass back. Neither of us looks away for a long second. Then Mia says something to him, and he turns back.
It happens again, twenty minutes later. I'm laughing at Liam doing an impression of Coach Mercer when I feel the pull, and I look across the room. Logan’s eyes are on me. My pulse rate goes up.
Harper kicks my ankle under the table.
“Ouch,” I cry out.
“Stop eye-fucking the defenseman. People are going to notice,” she says. “The two of you have been doing this all night, and it's the loudest silent conversation I've ever witnessed.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “We’re friends, Harper.”
“Friends don't look at each other like that across a crowded bar.”
I finish my drink. “I need another one.”
“What you need is to go talk to him.”
“I’m okay,” I say, even though I’d love nothing more than to continue our conversation from the bar.
I guess that’s the past Jasmine longing for what was. It’ll take time to adjust to having Logan back in my life as just a friend. But it’ll happen. All I need to do is keep reminding myself that we’re not the same people anymore, and we can only be friends.
Hours later, the night winds down. People start heading off. Liam, Avery, and I head to the bar so he can close the tab with the bartender. Logan and Blake are still at the bar. I give Logan a small wave, then follow Avery and Liam out.
“Goodnight, Jasmine. Text me when you get home,” Avery says and hugs me.
My Uber pulls up just then. I slip inside, and on the ride home, I scroll through my notifications. Then I see a message from Logan.
You look beautiful.
All air leaves my lungs. I check the time when he sent the message. It was hours ago while we were in the bar.
I read the message again. Friends with a past don't text each other that. What am I supposed to say? Thank you? You too? What are we doing, Logan?
I can’t come up with a reply, so I don’t give him one.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, or the way he looked at me, for the rest of the night.