“Parnell.” He drags his hand down his jaw, exasperated. “I don’t do kids. I don’t do classrooms. Absolutely not.”
I let the sheets drop a little lower again, revealing my naked hip. “So that’s a yes if I beg?”
His groan is half-growl, half-defeat. “Tallulah.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then drops it, eyes locking with mine. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
My heart lurches. “You will?”
“Yeah.” His jaw works, but his voice softens. “Not for them, for you.”
The breath whooshes out of me, a laugh catching at the edges. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”
“Already do.”
We’re both laughing now, the tension burning into something softer, almost tender. And when I finally snuggle down into his bed properly, my whole body humming, it isn’t just from what we did.
It’s from him. Gruff and filthy and unyielding, but somehow gentler with me than anyone’s ever been. Every command is laced with care, every sharp edge softened at the moment I need it most.
And it leaves me reeling, because the hum under my skin isn’t just pleasure, it’s the terrifying, dizzying ache of someone who already knows the shape of me and isn’t afraid to hold it.
Chapter eighteen
How not to chirp when you can’t grow a playoff beard
Logan
“Harder! You think last week’s win means shit? Move your asses!”
I dig in, legs burning as we run yet another set of battle drills barked at us by Coach Benson. My stick knocks a puck loose, Chase nearly eats it trying to scoop it up, and Ryan’s already there to clean the play. My lungs are fire, but my head’s sharper than it’s been in months.
Chase glides by and thumps my hip with his stick. “Jesus, Pookie, you’re skating like somebody promised you a blowjob.”
I grunt, shoulder-checking him just hard enough to send him wobbling into the boards. “Fuck off, Walton.”
Jake skates by. “Don’t encourage him. He’ll actually start taking bets.”
“Already started,” Chase calls back, earning himself a fresh blast of Benson’s whistle.
Ryan snorts, reliable as ever, the voice of reason. “How about we focus on not puking during drills, yeah?”
“Again!” Benson’s whistle punishes the air. “Small-area battle, five-on-five, go!”
We grind. Jake chirps, Chase yaps, Ryan’s a steady hum beside me, and Eli’s a shadow on the far half-wall, quiet and coiled. Benson finally gives us mercy with a long, blessed blast. The guys coast in, heaving.
I yank off my helmet, guzzle my water, and try not to notice Eli’s eyes tracking me or to feel as guilty as I do. He doesn’t know shit. But the guilt and fear bubble up anyway, not dissimilar to when you’re being scanned through TSA and you know you have nothing to hide, but feel like a criminal anyway.
Except, I kinda do have something to hide.
“Miller.”
My spine tightens. I turn, and he’s a picture of casual—one knee on the bench and resting his elbow on it, mouth a flat line—but his eyes are knives.
“Yeah?”
His brow arches, voice deceptively casual. “Why’d Lulu text me you’re covering her school’s Career Day?”
The bench stills just enough for me to feel it. Chase perks up, Jake side-eyes me, Ryan goes statue-still. Reid continues taping his hand down the end, silent but too damn attentive.
I clear my throat. “Because I am.”
