He shakes his head, lips pressing together. “Not the loud part, not yet. Only because we need to plan how we tell him…”
I nod, picking at my thumbnail again.
“But seeing you for who you are,lovingyou for who you are, and being proud to call you mine? As sure as the sun in the fucking sky, Tallulah.”
Something inside me tugs, and I cross to him, slipping a hand up his chest, feeling his heart hammering under my palm. “You’re already giving me everything I want. It’s very efficient.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, leaning his forehead against mine. “You’re gonna make me do something stupid again.”
“Like what?”
“This.”
I laugh, but he’s already closing the space between us. It starts gentle, then deepens. He drags his thumb along my jaw, tilts my chin up, and everything else—Eli, guilt, and the whole damn world—drops away.
When he pulls back, his voice is low and teasing again, the tension broken.
“Mmm,kiss love.”
Chapter thirty-four
Settle the fuck down and play hockey
Logan
It’s been two nights since my birthday, two nights since I came home to a hallway filled with silver balloons and Lulu’s smile.
Now it’s a home game against the Dallas Dragons, and the barn’s a pressure cooker by puck drop.
The Dragons play like assholes on a good day, but tonight it’s worse—slashes behind the play, sticks jabbing ribs, hits a second late just to grind us down. The crowd’s rabid for it, stomping, chanting, every check against the boards rattling straight into my bones, every smug grin making us itch for blood.
We trade chances early. Eli blasts one off the crossbar, and Chase takes a hit that rattles the glass so hard it shakes thebench. I dig a puck out of the corner and eat a shoulder for it, teeth snapping together hard enough my jaw aches.
It’s that kind of game, bloody and relentless. The kind where you know it won’t stay about the puck for long.
But it doesn’t matter. We push back harder, and Chase manages to barrel through their defenseman, puck popping loose, and I’m already there. One quick dish to Eli and he buries it glove-side.
The barn erupts.
We slam into each other on the ice, helmets knocking.
“Fuck yeah!” Eli roars.
“That’s how it’s done!” Chase whoops, pounding his chest as we hit the bench.
Dallas doesn’t take it well. They press harder, shots come flying from every angle, but Reid’s a wall. Kick save, glove snag, sprawling across the crease like he’s got six limbs instead of four.
“Jesus Christ, Hutch!” Jake yells from the bench as Reid flashes his leather glove, stealing one top corner.
“That’s my fucking goalie!” Eli cries.
The arena’s shaking with every stop, Storm fans chanting his name, Dallas getting meaner with every whistle. You can see it in their faces—they can’t solve him.
By the time the first period winds down, the ice is humming with bad intent. Refs are already swallowing their whistles, and both benches are bristling, waiting for the match to catch.
It comes near the end of the first period.
Their forward cuts straight through the crease, with no puck, no play, just bad fucking intentions. His stick angles low and sneaky, and he drives it straight into Reid, where the pads don’t protect.
