"You know, it's funny," I hear myself saying, veering completely off-script. "That whole scene... it was fun for a while."
Trent blinks, clearly expecting a different answer. "The hockey groupie scene? Sure, but it's still fun, right? I mean, if I had your opportunities—" He trails off with a suggestive chuckle.
"When I was twenty-two, yeah, absolutely," I continue, surprising myself with each word. "You're young, suddenly have money and attention... it's a rush. But honestly? It gets old."
"Gets old?" Trent repeats, like I've just told him the earth is flat. "Having beautiful women interested in you gets old?"
I lean back in my chair, suddenly aware of how true my words are, even though I've never articulated them before. "The thing is, after a while, you realize there's not much substance there. It's all surface—they're not interested in you, they're interested in what you represent. The jersey, the lifestyle, the story they can tell their friends."
Trent looks briefly panicked, like he's lost control of the interview. "But you're still enjoying the single life, right? Living it up in Chicago?"
"I'm not complaining," I clarify, not wanting to sound ungrateful. "I've got an amazing life. But there comes a point where you want something real. Something that matters beyond just a night or a weekend."
Where is this coming from? I've never spoken like this in an interview before. But as the words leave my mouth, I realizethey're true. Have been true for longer than I've admitted to myself.
"Wow, sounds like our Captain might be ready to settle down," Trent says, trying to regain his footing. "Ladies of Chicago, you heard it here first—there might be hope after all!"
I smile, letting him pivot the conversation back to safer territory. We finish the interview talking about the upcoming charity events the team is involved with, including the reading program at local schools. I mention it without using Reese's name, but her face is clear in my mind as I describe how important community outreach is to the team.
When the red light blinks off, Trent removes his headphones with a low whistle.
"Gotta say, McCoy, wasn't expecting the philosophical turn there. Not what I’m used to.”
"Yeah, well." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious.
"Makes for good radio." He stands, offering his hand again. "Come back anytime. The ladies are going to be blowing up our phone lines after this."
I shake his hand and thank the producer, then head for the elevator. In the quiet of the descending car, I replay the interview in my head. What made me open up like that? I've never deviated from the script before—it's safer to give people what they expect, to play the role they've assigned me.
But not today. For years, I've proudly owned the reputation, accepted it as part of the package of being Logan McCoy, hockey star. Today, for the first time, it felt false. Hollow.
I step out into the lobby, checking my phone. No new messages from Reese yet. That's okay. I'm surprised to find I don't feel the usual urgency, the need to lock down plans before she changes her mind. Instead, there's a calm certainty that I'll see her again, and when I do, I want to be better than the persona I've hidden behind for so long.
I pause outside the building, looking up at the slice of sky visible between Chicago's towers. The air feels different somehow, charged with possibility. Or maybe it's just me that's different. Either way, as I head back to my car, I find myself smiling again, that same silly smile from this morning that no amount of teasing could wipe away.
Chapter 5
Reese
Istare up at the sleek exterior of Maple & Ash, my heart doing that thing it's been doing on and off since Logan texted this morning. "Dinner tonight? I know a place."
When I said yes, I wasn't expecting one of Chicago's most expensive steakhouses—the kind where even the air feels rich, where people like me only go for milestone birthdays or engagement celebrations. But then again, I wasn't expecting any of this—not the coffee mishap, not wearing his jacket around my apartment nonstop, or texting obsessively with a man who is nothing like what I expected.
I smooth down my dress—the nicest one I own, a deep emerald wrap dress that Elena once said makes my curves look "illegal in several states"—and take a deep breath. Just dinner. With an absurdly attractive professional athlete who could literally have any woman in Chicago. No pressure.
I push through the heavy door into a space where everything gleams—polished wood, sparkling crystal, the soft glow of candles reflecting off wine glasses. The hostess gives me a once-over, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching slightly.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, suddenly feeling like I should have worn something more expensive, something that didn't come from last season's clearance rack.
"Name of the reservation?" she asks, her voice as smooth as the marble counter between us.
"McCoy," I say, and just like that, her expression transforms. The eyebrow settles, her smile warms, and she practically vibrates with excitement.
"Of course. Mr. McCoy mentioned you'd be joining him. He's already arrived. Please, follow me."
I trail behind her through the dining room, aware of the sidelong glances from other diners. Are they looking at me? Do I have something on my dress? But then I spot Logan, and the rest of the room fades to black.
He’s sitting at a corner booth, but stands when he sees me. The navy suit he’s wearing fits him like Giorgio Armani had tailored it himself, emphasizing his broad shoulders and trim waist. His smile makes me tingle—warm, genuine, slightly crooked on one side.
