She laughs, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “Okay, I’m impressed. That’s genuinely sweet.”
“He is sweet,” I say, hugging the blanket tighter around me. “And funny. And ridiculously hot, which feels like cheating somehow. No one should get to be that attractive and also have a personality.”
“So when are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully. After his game tonight.”
Elena takes a sip of her wine, studying me through the screen. “Reese, you know I love seeing you this happy. You’re practically glowing. But…”
“But what?” I prompt, though I already know where this is going.
“But I just want you to be careful,” she says, her voice gentle but serious. “Logan has a certain… reputation. And while I’m thrilled that he’s showing you this side of himself, I don’t want to see you get hurt if he’s not looking for something serious.”
“Have you been talking to your dad about this?” I ask, suddenly suspicious.
She shakes her head quickly. “God, no. Dad has no idea, and let’s keep it that way for now. This is just me being your best friend. The girl who picked up the pieces after Jake.”
The mention of my ex makes me wince. Jake, who’d promised forever and delivered three months before I found him with his tongue down his coworker’s throat.
“This is different,” I say, but even I can hear the hint of uncertainty in my voice. “Logan’s different.”
“I hope so,” Elena says sincerely. “I really do. Just… take it slow, like he said. Get to know the real him, not just the charming guy who’s clearly trying to impress you.”
I nod, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket. “I will. I’m not rushing into anything.”
Later, after we’ve hung up, I put on my PJs and double check my phone. No new messages yet—Logan’s game must still be on. I pull up the NHL app to check the score: tied 2-2 in the third period. I switch to the broadcast just in time to see him on the ice, powerful strides eating up the distance as he chases down a Detroit player who’s broken away with the puck. There’s a collision along the boards that makes me wince, but Logan emerges with the puck, sliding it to a teammate in a seamlessmotion before taking a punishing check that slams him into the glass.
He gets up immediately, unfazed, and rejoins the play. I find myself holding my breath until the whistle blows, until I can see he’s okay, skating to the bench for a line change.
This is his world—fast, physical, brutal in its beauty. So different from my classroom with its alphabet charts and circle time. Yet somehow, across that vast divide, we’ve found a connection that feels surprisingly easy, surprisingly real.
I watch until the final horn sounds, Chicago victorious 3-2. The players pile onto each other in celebration, sticks raised, gloves thumping backs. Even through the screen, their joy is contagious. I catch glimpses of Logan in the scrum, his smile wide beneath his helmet.
The postgame interviews drag on forever. I fold laundry, brush my teeth, all while keeping one eye on the screen. Finally, Logan appears, hair damp with sweat, still in his under-armor, answering questions with practiced ease. When asked about the game-winning play, he credits his teammates, humble in victory.
My phone buzzes twenty minutes later for our goodnight chat.
Chapter 7
Reese
Logan’s building rises like a gleaming spire against the Chicago skyline. The doorman greets me by name—“Good evening, Miss Thompson”—which means Logan’s called ahead, and something about that small courtesy makes me feel seen and slightly onstage.
I clutch my overnight bag tighter as I cross the marble lobby, heels clicking against the polished floor. The private elevator requires a key card, which Logan texted me would be waiting at the front desk. It’s all so calculated, so smooth. He’s done this before, I think, and immediately try to banish the thought.
“Penthouse,” the concierge says with a knowing smile as he hands me the card. Not helping my anxiety.
I step into the elevator—all mirrors and brushed metal—and swipe the card. The doors slide shut with a soft whisper, and my reflection stares back at me from every angle. I smooth down my favorite jeans, wondering if the casual-but-nice sweater was the right call. It's off-shoulder on one side—showing just enough skin to feel a little daring without trying too hard. First time at his place, and I didn't want to look like I was overthinking it.
The elevator begins its ascent, and my stomach lurches with it. Thirty-eight floors. Plenty of time to second-guess everydecision that led me here, from saying yes to dinner last week to packing an overnight bag tonight. What if this is just a hookup for him? What if all those texts and calls and FaceTimes were just his way of getting me into bed?
No. I shake my head at my anxious reflection. The connection we’ve built over the past week feels real. The way he listened when I talked about my students, the way he shared stories about his childhood in Minnesota—that wasn’t fake. Was it?
The elevator slows, then stops with a gentle ping. The doors slide open, and there he is.
Logan stands in the entrance to his penthouse, barefoot in dark jeans and a soft-looking gray henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me makes my knees weak.
“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to take my overnight bag. “You look incredible.”
