Chapter 7
Logan
I texted Jasmine from Gordy's last Saturday night, three words that I probably shouldn't have sent. You look beautiful. She read it and never replied. That was a week ago, and I've checked my phone every day since like an idiot waiting for an answer that isn't coming.
I need to get my head right. It's game day.
I turn my mind back to tonight. Tampa Bay's left winger is fast, cuts inside on every zone entry, and likes to pull up at the hash marks for a wrister. Their center is six-four and parks himself in front of the net all the time.
I get up, and go to the kitchen to make my game-day breakfast. Scrambled eggs, oatmeal with blueberries, and two slices of whole wheat toast. I eat standing at the counter with my phone face down.
Game day has a rhythm, and the rhythm doesn't include staring at an unanswered text from a woman I'm supposed to be over.
By seven-fifteen, I'm in my car, heading to MSG. I take the same route every game day. West on 66th, south on Columbus, cut across at 57th.
I put on a podcast about the history of Arctic exploration. A man is describing how Ernest Shackleton kept his crew alive on an ice floe for five months. I like stories about men who survive through discipline.
The facility is empty at eight in the morning, and the lights in the hallway are still on the dim overnight setting. I change in the locker room, lace up my skates, and hit the ice before anyone else arrives.
Morning skate is optional. I haven't missed one in three seasons. I do my warm-up routine in the same order every time. Lateral slides along the blue line. Forward-backward transitions at the circles. Edge work through the neutral zone.
Cole shows up at eight-twenty. He nods at me from the bench and laces up without a word. Blake arrives at eight-thirty and skates over and taps my shin pad with his stick, which is his version of good morning.
By nine-thirty, I'm off the ice and in the training room. Lane, the head athletic trainer, is already set up and waiting for me. We do this three times a week. Soft tissue work on my lower back, some mobility drills. The stretch sequence takes twenty minutes and hurts for all of it.
“How's it feeling today?” Lane asks, pressing his thumb into the muscle along my spine.
“Tight on the left side.”
“Same spot as Tuesday?”
“Yeah.”
He works on it while we talk. I ask about his parents. His dad had knee surgery a few weeks back, and Lane has been driving out to Jersey on his days off to help his mom around the house.
He shows me a photo of his dad standing up with a walker for the first time since the operation.
Lane finishes, and I get dressed and drive home. The midday light is coming through the living room windows. I close the blackout curtains in the bedroom, set my alarm, and lie down.
Right before I go under, my mind drifts to Jasmine. I hate that she’s now in my mind twenty-four-seven. What the fuck is wrong with me? Clearly, she wants us to be friends, and I know it’s the smart thing to do, but I can’t help how I feel.
I once read somewhere that your past lovers should remain past lovers. Smart advice. The kind of advice a rational person would follow. But rationality went out the window the second I saw Jasmine.
Madison Square Garden at night is a different building. The lights are up, the music is pounding, and all the seats are filled. Tampa Bay is sitting third in the Eastern Conference and the pressure is tight for both our teams.
I'm in the tunnel, helmet on, stick taped, gloves flexed. Cole is beside me, and Blake is behind me. Liam is somewhere further back, doing whatever superstitious thing he does before every game that he won't tell anyone about.
The horn sounds and we hit the ice. The crowd noise rolls over us, and my body switches on. This is where my mind goes quiet. This is where the noise in my head goes away, and all that's left is the game.
First period is tight. Tampa is fast, and their forecheck is relentless. I log eight minutes in the first period alone, matching up against their top line every shift.
Their left winger tries to cut inside on me twice, and I close the gap and angle him to the boards both times. Their center parks himself in front of our net, and I cross-check him in the lower back every time the ref isn't looking.
“Fuck off, Shaw,” he hisses after the third one.
“Move your feet, and I won't have to.”
“Touch me again, and I'll drop you.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re welcome to try.”
He doesn't try. He stays planted in front of the net, and I keep moving him out. By the end of the period, he's stopped talking and started flinching every time I line up behind him.
Between periods, I'm in the locker room, retaping my stick, listening to Mercer break down their neutral zone coverage. Then I pick up my water bottle and look at the TV screen mounted on the wall that shows a feed of the arena.
The camera pans across the lower bowl. It zooms in on Harper, Avery, Natalie, and Olivia with Maya on her lap.
Then it moves to Jasmine.
She's sitting between Harper and Avery, wearing a Renegades hoodie that's too big for her, and her hair is pulled back, and she's laughing.
God, she’s beautiful.
My parents are four rows behind her. Dad in his usual seat, Mom beside him, both in Renegades scarves.
Jasmine and my parents in the same section twenty feet apart. The two halves of my life separated by four rows of seats.
I put my water bottle down and go back to my stall.
Second period, I play the best twenty minutes of hockey I've played all season. I don't know why. I shut down Tampa's top line, block two shots, and make a stretch pass to Cole at the blue line that leads to a breakaway goal. The building erupts.
Third period, we pour it on. Liam scores on a power play with a wrist shot that beats the Tampa goalie clean. Jake adds an empty-netter with two minutes left. Final score 4-1.
After the game, Cole and I sit at the press table for the postgame. Cole handles most of it, talking about team structure and execution.
Then a reporter from ESPN turns to me. “Logan, you're heading to Chicago on Wednesday for the Chargers. They've won six of their last eight at home. What's the approach going into that building?”
“Same as every road game. Play our game, stick to our systems, don't let the crowd dictate the tempo.”
“Your back looked like it was bothering you in the first period. Any concerns heading into a quick turnaround?”
“No.”
The reporter waits for more. Cole jumps in and talks about the training staff and how well they manage the workload during the season.
We wrap up and head back to the locker room.
It’s loud and loose. Liam is spraying water bottles, and Mercer is trying to keep a straight face and failing. I shower, change, and sit at my stall while the noise settles. Then I pull out my phone.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should leave it alone. But I desperately want to see her.
Want to grab dinner?
Jasmine’s reply comes in under a minute.
As friends?
Yes.
Where?
I send her the name of a restaurant in the West Village that's quiet and doesn't attract a hockey crowd. She replies with a thumbs-up.
I put my phone away and finish getting dressed. Cole stops by my stall on his way out. “Good game tonight, Shaw. That pass in the second was a thing of beauty.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
He leaves. Blake is at the next stall, tying his shoes. “Gordy's or family tonight?”
“Neither. Grabbing dinner.”
Blake looks up. “With?”
“A friend.”
He holds my gaze for a second, visibly amused, then goes back to his shoes. “Uh huh. Have fun.”
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Good game tonight. Your gap control was better. We're at the family entrance. Mom wants to say hi.
Every home game, they wait for me at the family entrance, then they invite me to drive back to Long Island with them or grab a late dinner somewhere nearby.
I grab my bag and head out to the family entrance. Mom pulls me into a hug. “Great game, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Dad shakes my hand. “Much better tonight. Your positioning in the second was solid. That pass to Cole was the best play I've seen you make all season.”
From Dad, that's a standing ovation.
“Thanks,” I say with a grinning.
“We're thinking Italian,” Mom says. “That place on Eighth you like. You coming?”
“Can't tonight. I've got dinner plans.”
“With the team?”
“No, with Jasmine Bennett.”
Mom's smile stays in place, but her eyes change. “I saw her in the family section tonight. She's spending a lot of time at the arena.”
“She works on the Renegades' sponsorship account. It's her job to be here.”
“And dinner? Is that her job too?” My eyes narrow at her. What is she getting at?
Dad shifts his weight and says nothing, which is how I know he and Mom have already talked about this.
“Logan, I'm sure Jasmine is a lovely girl, she always has been,” Mom starts. “But she's a corporate lawyer. She has her own career and her own life. That's not someone who's going to build her world around a hockey player's schedule. You need someone who understands what this life requires.”
“It's dinner, Mom. Relax. I'll call you tomorrow.”
I kiss her cheek, shake Dad's hand, and walk to the players' exit on the other side of the building. The November air hits me when I step outside. I toss my bag in the back seat and pull out of the parking garage, heading downtown toward the West Village.