"Hey," I say softly, approaching as he reaches for his socks. "Come here a second."
He pauses, eyes finding focus on me for the first time this morning. His gaze softens slightly, the distance receding. "I'm getting dressed."
I wrap my arms around him from behind, my cheek against the broad, warm plane of his back. God, he smells so good. "We've got time," I murmur, hands sliding around to his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle, my fingers brushing lightly over his nipples.
I feel and hear him gasp. He drops his socks back to the bed and his hands cover mine, large and strong. For a moment, I think he'll pull them away, continue his routine without interruption. Instead, he turns in my arms, looking down at me with pupils noticeably dilated by arousal.
"Time for what?" he teases me, the question entirely rhetorical.
"How about a quickie?" My fingers trail down his stomach, toying with the waistband of his underwear. "For luck."
He’s smiling for the first time this morning. Then he's kissing me, deep and hungry, all game-day focus suddenly channeled in my direction. His hands are busy and warm from the shower, sliding under my shirt, cupping my breasts. He returns the nipple teasing, gently pulling on them until I gasp against his mouth.
We stumble backward toward the bed, he makes a sound low in his throat when my hand slips inside his boxers and wraps around his cock.
"God, Reese," he breathes against my neck, laying me back on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency in his movements. His weight settles over me, one thigh pressing between mine as he slowly kisses a path from just behind my ear and down my neck. He knows that makes me wet.
My hands roam his shoulders, desperate to feel him. He pushes my t-shirt up to expose my breasts. He sucks on my nipples hungrily, making me arch beneath him.
I want him in me now, as his fingers push into the waistband of my panties, tugging them down over my hips. My legs part for him instinctively, welcoming him into my thighs. His boxers are still half-on, pushed down just enough, and I feel him hard and ready against me.
"Fuck me, Logan." I urge, pulling him closer. "Please."
His eyes lock with mine, and I see something I don’t recognize—desire warring with routine, want battling against superstition. Then his gaze drifts past me to the bedside clock, and everything changes.
"Shit," he mutters, body tensing. "Shit, I can't." He pulls back, breathing hard, a flush spreading across his chest and up his neck. "I'm already running late."
I reach for him as he stands, tugging his boxers back up over the beautiful erection that now has nowhere to go. "Five minutes," I plead, propping myself up on my elbows. "That's all I need. That's all you need."
His smile is strained, apologetic. "I can't, baby. Tonight, I promise." He's rushing now, grabbing his shirt from where it landed, tucking it in with hurried movements. His fingers are shaky from the sex and he fumbles with his buttons.
I flop back on the bed, frustrated but understanding. "Tonight," I echo, watching him transform back into the hockey player. The leader, the captain. The man with the weight of a playoff series on his shoulders.
He finishes dressing in record time, tightening his tie with three precise adjustments before slipping into his suit jacket. “You look so handsome.” I say, adjusting his tie that doesn’t need it.
As he turns and heads to the door, he pats his pockets—keys, phone, wallet—the inventory complete. He bends to kiss me, a quick press of lips that carries the promise of later.
He's gone in a rush of nervous energy, the door clicking shut behind him. I sit up, pushing hair from my face, when I spot it—his Rolex on the nightstand. His good luck charm, the watch he bought himself when he got his first big contract. He always wears it to the rink on gamedays.
I grab it and hurry to the window thinking I might catch his eye as he heads to his car in the street below, but I'm too late.I watch as he slides behind the wheel, then just... sits there. His head drops forward against the steering wheel, shoulders sagging for a long, vulnerable moment. The pressure of game one of the playoffs weighing on him.
Finally, he straightens, starts the engine, and pulls away. I stand at the window, the cool metal of his watch pressed against my palm, and wonder if my attempt to relax him this morning has done the opposite.
The so-called "Wives and Girlfriends" box at United Center buzzes with conversation. Women in team-colored fashion, bearing her man's name and number, huddle together, sipping drinks and talking about anything other than hockey. I sit slightly apart, perched at the edge of my seat with Logan's watch discreetly tucked in my jacket pocket. I keep touching it for luck.
It's been a whirlwind three weeks since the playoffs started. Five games to sweep Nashville felt almost too easy—Logan playing with a confidence I'd never seen, the team rolling through their first-round opponent like they were meant for something bigger. Then Dallas. That was different. Six brutal games, each one a war, back and forth until they finally closed it out at home four nights ago. I watched every minute from this same seat.
And now Colorado. The Western Conference Finals. Win this series and one more, and they play for the Stanley Cup. The stakes have never been higher, and I can feel it in the energy of the building, in the nervous excitement of the other women around me, in the way my stomach twists with anxiety.
Down below, the players file onto the ice for warm-ups, and my eyes find Logan immediately, the tallest Blade on the ice.
Something's off though. I can see it in the way he’s moving. His usual fluidity seems mechanical, each push of his skates looks labored rather than the automatic grace I'm used to watching. He takes a pass from Benny, fumbles it slightly before regaining control, and shoots wide of the net.
Kovy’s beautiful blonde Ukrainian wife slides into the seat beside me, "Hello darling, Reese. You look beautiful tonight. How is playoff Logan treating you?"
"Thank you. So do you.” I say, touching her arm. “I’m good. I had no idea playoffs were so intense for them. No clue that he had another level of intensity. He was so incredibly focused this morning."
"I’m not surprised. They live for this. Kovy is the same way but he’s not the captain." she observes, following my gaze to where Logan is now stretching near the boards. "My husband says the pressure on Logan is enormous right now."
