“Perfect.” I exhale, palms flat to my sides. I lean over and whisper, “Jenny, how do I look?”
She gives me the kind of smile that says, I see you. “Like a professional kindergarten teacher who definitely isn’t freaking out about seeing someone special.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks again. “That obvious?”
“Only to another adult,” she assures me. “The kids just think you’re excited about hockey.”
Footsteps sound in the hallway, and twenty-two heads snap toward the door at once. My stomach tightens. How am I supposed to maintain my professional composure when Loganwalks in? How do I look at him without remembering the feel of his lips and the sexy friction from his stubble last night?
“They’re coming!” Zoe whispers with the kind of intensity reserved for celebrities.
“Remember,” I say, my voice steady, “we are respectful and kind to our visitors. They’re here to read with us—let’s show them our best listening.”
“And fight!” Griffin adds enthusiastically.
“No fighting,” I correct firmly. “Reading stories. Being good role models.”
The footsteps grow closer. I imagine Logan walking these halls, his powerful form oddly at home here. Will he look at me differently in front of the children? Will he be able to hide what happened between us? Will I?
“Ms. Jenny, can you open the door for our guests when they arrive?” I ask, needing her at the entrance to buy me a few more seconds to compose myself.
She nods and moves toward the door while I take my place behind the children, partly to keep them contained and partly to give myself time to adjust to seeing Logan in this context.
“When they come in,” I remind the class, “we’ll greet them with our welcome song.”
The kids nod eagerly, some practically vibrating with excitement. I hear muffled voices outside the door now, adult male voices so out of place in our world of high-pitched questions and singsong instructions. One of them is Logan’s—my girl parts tingle. Great.
The doorknob turns. My pulse spikes. I force my face into what I hope is a neutral, professional expression as Ms. Jenny pulls the door open.
Here we go.
I step back against the bulletin board as Logan enters, flanked by three other players who seem massive in our child-sized classroom. The welcome song dissolves into gasps and exclamations at the sight of these giants in Blades team gear. But I only see him—Logan in worn jeans and a crisp team polo stretched across those broad shoulders. His eyes find mine instantly, a flash of intimate recognition quickly masked by professional warmth as Ms. Jenny makes introductions.
“Boys and girls, please welcome Captain Logan McCoy, Alex Peterson, Dmitri Kovalev, and Ben Mitchell from the Chicago Blades!” Ms. Jenny announces with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly recognizes the men standing before us.
The children’s applause turns into wide-eyed stares. Finn’s mouth hangs open like he’s seeing superheroes materialize before him, which I suppose, in his five-year-old world, he is.
“Thank you for that amazing welcome,” Logan says, his voice pitched gentler than I’ve ever heard it. He crouches down, bringing his imposing height closer to their level. “We’re excited to be here with all of you today.”
The other players follow his lead, dropping to one knee or bending at the waist. It’s startling how naturally Logan adapts to this environment—so different from the rink where he commands respect with his physical presence, or the dimness of his bedroom where he?—
“Miss Thompson says you knock people’s teeth out!” Lucas blurts, cutting off thoughts I shouldn’t be having here.
Logan laughs, warm and familiar. “Miss Thompson said that, did she?”
His eyes flick to mine, a private joke passing between us. My cheeks warm.
“I said that’s what some people think hockey is about,” I clarify, keeping it calm. “But it’s really about teamwork and skill.”
“Miss Thompson is right,” Logan agrees, nodding solemnly at the children. “Hockey is about working together with yourteam. Sometimes it gets rough, but that’s not the most important part.”
The children’s hands shoot up at once. Lily all but bounces.
“Are you Miss Thompson’s boyfriend?” she asks.
The room goes silent. I feel every adult eye swing to me as heat climbs my neck.
“Lily, remember we talked about appropriate questions,” I manage, my voice slightly higher than normal.
