Chapter 38
thirty-eight
BLAIR
“Did you know there are photos of you on the internet?”
My head whips up, and I meet my little brother’s gaze.
His lips twitch and eyes crinkle in the corners, and my palms grow sweaty.
We’ve been sitting silently, both of us staring at our phones, while we eat breakfast. It’s Saturday morning, so neither of us has anywhere we need to be until Logan’s game later.
Reed was thrilled when I told him about the tickets.
They’re only eight rows up from the boards, so we’ll be nice and close to the action.
Logan offered to get us seats in the friends and family box, which would have been fun for me because I know at least one of the girls is likely to be there, but Reed will enjoy closer seats more.
“What do you mean, there are photos of me on the internet?”
Reed flips his phone over so I can see the images on his screen.
Sure enough, there’s a grainy photo of Logan and me at the French restaurant on Thursday night.
You can’t see my face, because I’m looking at Logan as he holds my chin, whispering dirty, filthy things to me, and most of my face is hidden by my hair, but it’s definitely me.
Logan is recognizable, and even though it’s grainy and whoever took it clearly had to zoom in enough to degrade the quality of the photo, there’s no denying it’s him.
“He looks like he’s about to eat you. Jesus.”
“Shut up,” I say, smacking Reed on the shoulder. He’s not wrong, though. It felt intense to be the object of Logan’s focus while we were out, but to see it from this perspective? Yeah. Wow.
“How did you find this?”
“One of the guys on my team sent it to me and asked if that was my sister. Which was weird but also kinda cool. You’re famous.”
My stomach rolls. I do not want to be famous. And I certainly don’t want photos some stranger took of Logan and me to jeopardize my job. “I’m not famous. You can’t even tell that’s me. They don’t have my name listed on that, do they?”
Reed shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t worry, Blair-Bear. No one knows who you are. But lots of people are saying you look pretty.”
“Well, that’s nice, I guess.” I’m sure there are plenty of people who are saying less than kind things, too, but that’s the nature of existing as a woman in the age of the internet.
People are assholes. Lexi, Mira, and Isla have all talked about how they’ve had to stop engaging with most social media and lock their profiles down to just friends and family.
I wish things weren’t this way, but sadly, it’s a fact of life.
The internet isn’t kind to women in general, but it can be even more cruel to Black women.
I’m definitely not going to read the comments.
“My friends think it’s badass that my sister is dating a hockey star.”
I chuckle. “Glad my romantic life can win you points with your fellow thirteen-year-olds.”
Reed rolls his eyes as he shovels the last few bites of his breakfast into his mouth before pushing away from the table and washing his dishes. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Kay.”
“Blair?”
I look up at my little brother, who towers over me when I’m sitting and he’s not. “Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you’re happy. You deserve to have someone who looks at you the way Logan does.”
My throat is suddenly so tight I struggle to croak out a response. “Thanks, Reed.”
He lifts his chin and gives me a nod before disappearing into the bathroom. An affectionate smile plays across my lips, and my fingers twitch as I struggle to keep myself from looking up that photo of Logan and me.
The arena is packed to capacity, and it makes my skin feel too tight. The air is thick with body heat and excited chatter, and I’m jostled by the crowd more than once as Reed and I dodge and weave through the teeming masses decked out in Rogues Yellow, jerseys, and branded hats.
I thought we could avoid the worst of the crush by arriving as soon as the arena opened, but I was wrong. Apparently, people love showing up for warm-ups.
“Can we get a soft pretzel and nacho cheese?” Reed asks, tugging on my hoodie. Well, Logan’s hoodie. He gave me one of his older Rogues hoodies the other day, and I’ve been wearing it nonstop ever since. It’s oversized and perfectly worn. And it still smells faintly of him.
“Yeah, of course. Let’s grab some stuff before we find our seats.” We wait in the growing line, pay way too much for two soft pretzels with cheese and two bottles of soda, then find the entrance to our section.
“Holy shit. These seats are awesome.”
“Language,” I say reflexively as we squeeze past already-seated fans and make our way to the seats Logan got for us.
Reed rolls his eyes, then flops down in his chair, his knees knocking against mine.
I can’t even be mad about his manspreading.
He’s genuinely almost too tall for normal-people seats like this.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up being well over six feet tall by the time he’s done growing.
He’s already almost at my five-foot-nine, and he’s thirteen.
When the guys come out for warm-ups, Reed grins like the kid he still very much is when Logan and the rest of the guys skate by and pound the glass, waving at us.
It earns us more than a few curious looks, but I choose to ignore them in favor of watching my little brother glow with happiness.
And when Logan points at him and tosses a puck over the glass, making sure the fans in the first few rows pass it back, Reed is flying high.
And I’m falling.
Hard.
The thought makes my heart race and my hands grow clammy. Suddenly, the arena is too loud, the people too close, and the air too thin.
I’m falling.
And freaking the fuck out.
“I need another drink,” I say to my little brother. He’s so wrapped up in the action, he doesn’t notice the breathy, thin quality of my voice. “Need anything else?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Apologizing as I squeeze past the people seated around us, I climb the steps to the exit and practically run out of the main part of the arena toward the concession stands.
I’m so preoccupied with my internal freak-out that I’m not paying attention to where I’m going, and I let out a breathless oomph when I run straight into what feels like a wall.
“Woah there. You all right?”
A handsome older man steadies me with his hands on my arms as I stumble backward. His gaze is assessing, gray eyes running down the length of me. I’m sure he means to appear concerned, but there’s something hungry about his perusal that straightens my spine.
Pulling away, I paste on a smile and nod. “I’m okay. Sorry about that.”
“No worries, darlin’. It’s not much of a hardship to run into a beautiful woman like you.”
There’s something strangely familiar about the man, though I’ve never met him before.
He’s older—most likely in his mid-to-late fifties if I had to guess—wearing a fitted, expensive-looking suit with a perfectly knotted tie, and has slicked-back, mostly salt-and-pepper gray hair.
He strikes me as the kind of man who lives in suits.
Like he’s more comfortable all buttoned up in the starched formality than he could ever be in jeans and a tee shirt.
I don’t trust people like that, and something tells me not to trust him, either.
My chuckle sounds forced, because it is. I know most men believe women love hearing strangers call us beautiful, but really, we just want to be left alone. At least, I want to be left alone. I don’t need compliments about my looks from a man who could be my father.
“Right, well, sorry again for bumping into you.”
“Owen,” he says smoothly. He holds out his hand, which I stare at, dumbly. After a moment, his lips twitch into a frown, and he drops his hand.
“Sure. Well, enjoy the game.” I sidestep the man—Owen, apparently—but stop when his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.
“Can I buy you a drink? Maybe dinner?”
The battle I wage with myself to keep from rolling my eyes cannot be understated. It’s hard-fought, and I almost don’t win.
“Um, no, thank you. I need to get back to my brother.”
“Another time? Why don’t you give me your number?” He holds out a shiny new phone. He’s obviously rich enough that it’s the latest model, whereas I’ve been using mine going on four years. His gray eyes run down the length of my body again. “And your name.”
Clearing my throat, I pull my arm away. “I’m really not interested. And I have a boyfriend.”
Good ole Owen clearly isn’t used to being rejected, because his brow furrows and his frown deepens before he recovers and his face slides into an affable mask.
“Boyfriends aren’t husbands, though, are they?
And even husbands don’t have to be forever.
” He winks at me, and I know my face is saying all the things my mouth won’t.
“That’s… Ew.” Not giving him another chance to stop me, I turn on my heel and hurry toward the concession stand.
My fingers flex at my sides, and I pull my phone out of my pocket to give me something to do other than slapping the smug look off that guy’s face.
Because even husbands don’t have to be forever? Who the hell says stuff like that?
What an absolute scumbag.
Even though he’s playing and won’t be able to check his messages for at least the next hour, I pull up my text thread with Logan and type away as I wait for the five people in line before me to be helped.
Me
I just had the most uncomfortable interaction. I ran into some old guy—literally—and he was such a creep. Looked old enough to be my dad, and he asked me out.
When I told him no and that I have a boyfriend, he basically said boyfriends and husbands didn’t have to be forever. Can you believe that?
I suck in a deep breath, my hands shaking slightly. The whole interaction unnerved me.
Me
I’m shaking right now. I wish you could take a break and hug me.
I’ll just pretend the next guy you bodycheck is that creeper.
I hit send as the last person before me pays, and it’s my turn to order. I decide I could use a beer after that whole interaction and glance back toward the section entrance where I ran into Owen to make sure he’s no longer there. The coast is clear, and I release the breath I’ve been holding.
My head’s on a swivel as I make my way back to my seat. Reed’s cheering and chirping insults at the Denver Stags like a true-blue hockey fan. My heart rate settles back into a normal rhythm as I take my seat next to him.
“You were gone a while. All good?”
I nod. “All good. Did I miss anything?”
“Not really. The other team took a shot but missed. Sebastian is really good.”
“He is. I don’t know how he does it. It must be so much pressure.”
“Right?” Reed shakes his head in amazement. It’s the look of one athlete recognizing the skills of another.
I love that he gets to spend time around guys like Logan and Bash. How many kids his age get that kind of insight and encouragement from world-class athletes?
The growing noise level in the arena interrupts my thoughts, and I turn my attention back to the action.
Logan, Maddox, and Griffin race down the ice, passing the puck between them, dodging the sticks and bodies of the opposing team.
They make it look so easy, but I know it can’t be.
I’ve never actually gone ice skating, but I’d roller bladed plenty as a kid in California, and I fell on my ass plenty of times weaving through crowded streets and sidewalks.
And I never had two-hundred-pound men throwing their bodies at me in an attempt to get me off my feet.
A chant of let’s go Rogues starts at one end of the arena and grows like a wave rushing toward the shore until it overtakes our section, and Reed and I join in.
I hiss as a big guy slams Maddox into the glass, but he manages to slap the puck over to Griffin, who hops an opponent’s stick and taps the puck to Logan, who isn’t as covered by Denver’s defensemen.
I clasp my hands together under my chin as Logan maneuvers into place and prepares to take a shot. Griffin shouts something at him I can’t make out, and I hold my breath when I notice what Griffin already has.
A member of the Stags is skating hard and fast at Logan, and there’s no way he’ll get out of the way fast enough to avoid a collision.
The crowd boos when the Stags player slams into Logan, and my boyfriend goes down. Logan twists mid-fall, his eye never leaving the puck, extends his arm, and his stick, and before he fully hits the ice, flicks his wrist and sends the puck flying.
“No way,” Reed shouts. The moment feels like it moves in slow motion as the arena holds a collective breath.
“Oh my god,” I scream, jumping up in my seat, along with the rest of the fans, as the puck slips between Denver’s goalie’s legs, the red light flashes, and sirens blare. “He fucking did it!”
Griffin holds a hand down to Logan, helping him to his feet, and then they’re hugging and tapping the foreheads of their helmets together. Logan doesn’t seem hurt, thank goodness.
I can’t believe he made that shot.
The crowd goes crazy as the rest of the Rogues surround Logan for a quick celebration. My heart goes crazy when he turns our way and our gazes collide. His smile is downright sinful as he gives me a wink, and I swear my heart skips a beat in unison with the gesture.
“I think your boyfriend just made a shot for you, Blair-Bear,” Reed shouts next to me. “That’s so fucking cute.”
“Language,” I admonish. But I’m smiling like a fool. Because yeah, I think he did, and yeah, it is.