"Or?" I prompt when he trails off.
His smile turns a shade more intimate. "Or if you just want to talk."
"I'd like that." The words come out barely above a whisper.
As he enters his number into my coffee-splattered phone, I can't help but marvel at how quickly this day has changed course. Up until ten minutes ago, I was feeling like a love-life loser. Now I'm wearing Logan McCoy's jacket and watching him save his contact in my phone.
"There." He hands it back, our fingers brushing again. "Ball's in your court now, Reese."
"Thanks for being so cool about..." I gesture to the mess we've created. "All this."
"Collisions are what I do for a living." He winks, and my heart does a ridiculous little flip. "See you soon?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. As he walks away, throwing one last smile over his shoulder, I stand frozen in place, clutching my coffee-stained papers and wrapped in his jacket.
Did that really just happen?
I'm halfway down the block, walking to my car, and I can’t believe I’m wearing Logan's jacket. The sleeves hang past my fingertips. It smells so good. Like he did. It makes my stomach flutter every time I inhale. My coffee-stained blouse is tucked beneath it, safely hidden from view, but there's no hiding the racing of my heart or the heat in my cheeks. Did that really just happen? Did I really just meet—and completely humiliate myself in front of the captain of the Chicago Blades? And did he really just give me his number?
I duck into a quiet alley between buildings and lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath. The cool October air does nothing to calm the warmth spreading through me. I close my eyes and replay every moment of our encounter, half-convinced I imagined the whole thing.
But the jacket is real. The phone number in my contacts is real. The coffee stain on my blouse is definitely, unfortunately real.
"Holy shit," I whisper to no one, running my fingers through my hair. "Holy actual shit."
I pull out my phone and check my contacts. There it is: "Logan McCoy" with a little hockey stick emoji next to it. He'd typed it himself, his fingers moving across my screen with casual confidence, like giving his number to strange women who shower him with coffee is something he does every Monday.
My thumb hovers over his name. Should I text him now? Thank him for the jacket again? Or would that seem too eager, too desperate? What's the protocol for texting a professional athlete after an accidental meet-cute that probably means nothing to him but has turned my entire day upside down?
I should wait. Definitely wait. Play it cool. Act like exchanging numbers with gorgeous hockey captains is a regular occurrence in my life.
But my fingers have other ideas:Thanks again for the jacket and for being so nice about the coffee ambush. This is Reese, by the way. The clumsy teacher.
My thumb hits send before I can second-guess myself, and I immediately stuff the phone back in my pocket like it's suddenly burning hot. Oh god. Was that too much? Too soon? Too awkward?
"Get it together, Thompson," I mutter, pushing off the wall and continuing toward my car. It's just a text. To a guy who's probably forgotten about me already. A guy who likely gets dozens of messages from women far more interesting and glamorous than a kindergarten teacher with coffee-stained clothes.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly trip over my own feet fishing it out of my pocket.
Coffee ambush is definitely going in my memoir. And you're welcome for the jacket—I've got about 50 more at home. Keep it if you want.
My heart does a ridiculous little dance. He responded. Immediately. With a joke.
I bite my lip, typing back:I couldn't possibly deprive you of what I'm sure is a very expensive piece of your wardrobe. But I'll take good care of it until I see you again.
The "again" hangs there on my screen, bold and presumptuous. As if seeing him again is a certainty rather than a wild, unlikely hope.
I reach my car and slide in, but don't start the engine. My phone buzzes again.
Looking forward to it. Maybe next time we can actually drink the coffee instead of wear it.
Is he... asking me out? I stare at the text, reading it over and over. It sounds like he's asking me out. But that can't be right. Guys like Logan McCoy don't ask out women like me.
That would be a nice change of pace, I finally reply, trying to match his casual tone while my insides are doing somersaults.
There's a pause before his next text comes through:I've got practice, but we'll talk soon. Enjoy the rest of your teacher workday, Reese.
I sit in my car, clutching my phone and grinning like an idiot. This doesn't feel real. None of it. But the evidence is right there in my hands—both in the form of texts and the jacket still wrapped around me.
