Logan recovers faster than I do. “I’m here today as a hockey player, not to talk about personal things,” he says smoothly, then points to Zoe. “What’s your question?”
“Can you sign my jersey?” she asks, plucking at her oversized Blades shirt.
“Absolutely,” Logan says. “We’ll do autographs after our story.”
The questions continue rapid-fire: How fast can you skate? Does it hurt when you fall? Do you have a dog? Logan handles each with patience and good humor, never talking down to them. The other players chime in too, but it’s Logan who naturally commands the room—not with authority but with a gentle steadiness that surprises me.
When question time ends, Logan moves toward our book display. “Which one should we read today?”
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar!” several voices call out, our class favorite.
Logan picks the book from the shelf with careful fingers. “Great choice,” he says, settling into my reading chair.
The children scramble to find spots on the rug in front of him, jostling for prime positions. Ezra, our quietest student who rarely speaks, hangs back, watching Logan with a mixture of awe and uncertainty.
“There’s a spot right here,” Logan says gently, patting the rug beside his chair. Ezra inches closer but doesn’t sit.
I move to the back of the group, partly to keep an eye on everyone and partly because I need space to breathe. Watching Logan in my classroom feels impossible and exactly right at once—the man who whispered filthy things against my neck last night is now turning pages of a children’s book with careful concentration.
“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf,” Logan begins, his deep voice softening around the familiar words.
As he reads, something magical happens. This professional athlete—this man who can destroy opponents on ice now softens his voice for a picture book—transforms the simple story with different voices for each day of the week. The children lean forward, completely captivated. Even Ms. Jenny watches with undisguised admiration from her spot by the door.
“On Saturday, he ate through one piece of chocolate cake…” Logan reads, making exaggerated munching sounds that send the kids into fits of giggles.
Somewhere during the caterpillar’s Thursday feast, Ezra edges closer and closer until he’s leaning against Logan’s leg. By the time the butterfly emerges, Ezra has somehow climbed into Logan’s lap, his small body dwarfed by Logan’s powerful thighs. Logan adjusts without missing a beat, one arm supporting Ezra while the other holds the book.
The tender picture they make—massive hockey player cradling my most delicate student—presses a sudden ache under my ribs. This isn’t just attraction anymore. This is something more.
“The end,” Logan says, closing the book to enthusiastic applause from twenty-two pairs of small hands.
“That was the best Hungry Caterpillar ever!” Sophie declares with decisive authority.
Logan laughs, carefully helping Ezra back to his feet. “Thank you. Coming from caterpillar experts like you, that’s a huge compliment.”
The PR coordinator who accompanied them steps forward, checking her watch. “We should move to the next classroom,” she says apologetically.
Logan nods and stands, towering once again in our small space. The other players, who have been sitting with small groups of children, begin saying their goodbyes. As promised, they sign things for the kids and give each one a little bag of Blades swag. The children are geeked.
I circulate among the children, helping maintain some semblance of order amid the excitement. When I turn from helping Zoe fold her newly signed jersey, Logan is suddenly beside me, his presence a warm, solid reality in my peripheral vision.
“Thank you for having us, Miss Thompson,” he says formally, loud enough for others to hear. But as he shakes my hand, his thumb skims my wrist—gentle, deliberate—and a shiver races up my arm. “Great classroom you have here.”
“Thank you for coming,” I reply, proud my voice holds, as cheeks flush again. “The children loved it.”
“Not just the children,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to catch. Then he winks—quick and subtle—before turning to follow his teammates.
I watch him go, Ezra trailing behind like a small shadow, reluctant to see his new friend leave. At the doorway, Logan crouches one more time to give Ezra a high five, his large hand engulfing the child’s smaller one with careful gentleness.
The classroom buzz refuses to settle, my students reliving every second of their hockey heroes’ visit while I busy myself with hands that still tingle from Logan’s touch. I plaster on myteacher smile, but inside, I’m rattled. Having him in my world was head spinning.
Tomorrow night, at the gala, we’ll see what happens when I’m in his.
Chapter 10
Logan
The flashbulbs pop like tiny lightning strikes as we step from the limo. I squint against the barrage, feeling my smile freeze into the practiced expression I learned over years of media training. Beside me, Reese’s hand tightens in mine, her burgundy gown catching the light as she steps out with more grace than I feel. My bow tie goes from snug to constricting in a heartbeat—the same heartbeat that’s supposed to keep me steady at a podium in under an hour.
