"To unexpected collisions," Logan says, raising his glass.
The wine is incredible—rich and velvety, nothing like the $20 bottles I split with Elena on our girls' nights. I take another sip, letting myself enjoy it without thinking about the price tag.
"So," Logan says, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me about kindergarten. What made you want to teach the little monsters?"
"They're not monsters," I say automatically, then laugh. "Okay, sometimes they are. But mostly they're just these amazing little humans figuring out how the world works. Every day is different. One minute you're explaining why we don't eat glue, the next you're watching a kid have this incredible breakthrough with reading or making a friend."
As I talk about my classroom, my students, the daily victories and challenges, Logan listens with an intensity that's almost unnerving. He asks thoughtful questions, laughs at my stories about classroom mishaps, and seems genuinely interested in what my days are like.
"What about you?" I ask as our appetizer arrives—a towering display of seafood that looks like it belongs in a food magazine. "How does a boy from small-town Minnesota end up captain of the Chicago Blades?"
He tells me about growing up in Hibbing, about frozen ponds and early morning practices, about his dad who ran a one-man plumbing business and worked long hours to pay for hockey equipment.
"I wasn't a natural talent," he admits, using a tiny fork to extract crab meat. "Not like some guys who just have this gift. I had to work twice as hard for half the recognition."
"But you made it," I say.
"Eventually. After a lot of long bus rides in minor leagues, a lot of soggy road subs, a lot of wondering if I should just give up and go be a fireman back in Hibbing." His smile turns reflective.
As we talk, our hands occasionally brush across the table—reaching for bread, gesturing to make a point. The touch is nothing, really, just skin against skin, but it shoots straight through me like a live wire. My fingers tingle, my thighs clench under the table, and I wonder if he notices the way I keep inventing excuses to reach across.
The main course arrives, and the conversation flows as easily as the wine. I tell him about my most challenging student, a boy with selective mutism who finally spoke in class last week. He tells me about the rookies on his team, how he sees himself in their nervousness, their desperation to belong.
"You're really good with them," I say. "The way you talk about the younger players—it's how I think about my students."
"I never thought about it that way," he says, looking genuinely surprised. "But yeah, I guess there are similarities. Minus the tantrums and nose-picking."
"Oh, hockey players don't have tantrums? I find that hard to believe."
He laughs, deep and genuine. "Okay, fair point. To be honest, we also have tantrums and pick our noses. Maybe we're not so different from kindergartners after all."
By the time dessert arrives—a chocolate soufflé that melts on my tongue—I've almost forgotten where we are, who he is. It just feels like dinner with someone I've known much longer than a day, someone who gets my jokes and challenges my thoughts and makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t in a long time. All of that and he’s kind, charming, and definitely the hottest guy I’ve ever been on a date with.
When the bill arrives, discreetly tucked into a leather folder, I reach for my purse out of habit. Logan's hand gently covers mine.
"I've got this," he says, and I notice for the first time a slight scar across his knuckles. "You can get the next one."
The next one. The promise in those words makes my heart skip.
He slips a credit card into the folder without checking the total, but I catch a glimpse of the figure as the waiter takes it away. The amount makes me tense momentarily—but Logan doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand.
I place my palm against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the slight calluses on his fingertips. My heart races. "Ready." I lie.
As we weave through the restaurant toward the exit, I notice the glances again—the subtle phones raised to take discreet photos, the whispers behind hands. But Logan keeps his focus entirely on me, his hand a steady presence at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like we're the only two people in the room.
Outside, the night air is cool against my heated skin. I look up at him, suddenly shy again now that we're alone.
"Thank you for dinner," I say. "It was... amazing."
He leans in, our faces closer than ever, and for a split second I think he’s going to kiss me right there in front of the valet stand. But he goes for my ear instead, his breath warm on my cheek, making all my nerve endings fire.
“Thank you for saying yes,” he whispers, his words sending a shiver from the base of my neck down to my belly. His cologne hits me, dark and clean, and my knees almost give out. I can’t decide if I want to melt into his arms or drag him back into the restaurant bathroom and do unspeakable things to him.
Then he pulls back, searching my face, and I’m pretty sure he can see every dirty thought flickering in my eyes. But he just grins, boyish and wolfish at once, and whispers, “Can I drive you home?”
I nod because my mouth is useless at the moment, my words stuck somewhere behind my tongue. The cool air on the sidewalk almost sobers me, but then Logan squeezes my hand, igniting another round of fireworks in my blood.
