“I didn’t mean?—”
“No, it’s okay.” I turn back to her. “It’s the truth. I’ve had a lot of relationships that weren’t really relationships. They were…” I search for the right word.
“Transactions?” Reese offers.
I nod, relieved she understands. “Yeah. Exactly. They wanted the hockey player, the name, the connections. I wanted…” I trail off, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like an asshole.
“Uncomplicated companionship?” she suggests.
I laugh softly. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
She shrugs. “I’m a kindergarten teacher. I’m good at making difficult concepts sound easier than they seem at first.”
A gust of wind sends more leaves swirling around us. Reese shivers slightly, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
“The thing is,” I continue, “with you, it’s not like that. It’s not transactional. It’s… it matters. And that scares me sometimes.”
The truth lands between us, impossible to take back.
Reese doesn’t laugh or pull away. She takes my free hand, the one not wrapped around her shoulders, and tucks it between both of hers. Her fingers are warm despite the autumn chill.
“Courage doesn’t mean you’re not afraid, Logan,” she says softly. “It means you’re afraid and you do it anyway.”
The simplicity of her words strikes me. In hockey, we call it “playing through the pain”—acknowledging the hurt but refusing to let it stop you. Maybe emotional courage works the same way.
I steady my breath. “So, you know that charity gala I told you I have to speak at next Saturday, for the Blades Foundation. It’s a big formal event, silent auction, speeches, the whole nine yards.” I pause, gathering my nerve. “Will you be my date?”
It seems like such a simple question, but we both understand what it means. This isn’t just dinner at my place or a farmers market where no one cares who I am. This is me, Logan McCoy, captain of the Chicago Blades, bringing Reese Thompson, kindergarten teacher, as my date to an official team function. It’s making a statement. It’s putting whatever this is between us on display for teammates, management, media, fans—everyone.
Reese blinks, her expression unreadable for a moment that stretches into eternity.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I add quickly. “It’s a lot to ask, I know that. There would be photographers, questions?—”
“Logan,” she interrupts, squeezing my hand. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
The knot in my chest unravels, relief flooding through me. “Yeah?”
She smiles, warm and genuine. “Yeah.”
“There’ll be press,” I warn. “Probably some gossip sites. Once you show up with me, people will be interested in who you are.”
“I think I can handle it,” she says. “I manage twenty-two five-year-olds every day. A few photographers don’t scare me.”
I laugh, the sound lighter than I expected. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” she adds, her eyes twinkling, “I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear this ridiculous dress I bought on sale last year. It’s been hanging in my closet waiting for a special occasion.”
“The gala is definitely that,” I say. “Black tie, champagne, teammates in tuxedos looking uncomfortable.”
“Sounds perfect.” She leans up and kisses me softly. “Thank you for asking me.”
“Thank you for saying yes.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching leaves drift down around us. I’m still scared—of how fast this is moving, of how much I already care, of all the ways it could go wrong. But Reese is right. Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s feeling the fear and moving forward anyway.
“We should probably head back,” Reese says eventually. “I promised Elena I’d meet her for coffee at three.”
I nod, but neither of us moves immediately. The bench is our little bubble of peace, and I’m reluctant to burst it.
