ONE
TODD
The locker roomsmells like the sweat that is embedded into our gear and detergent. Home sweet home.
I dump my duffel on my cubby shelf and stretch out like I own the place—because I do. Todd Shaw, team captain, junior year. I’ve got this down to a science.
First day back, and the guys are hyped. Peter’s running his mouth across from me, hands flying as he talks about his “epic” summer training plan that I’m ninety percent sure involved more Cheetos than cardio. Daniel and Eli are chatting about their summer and all the shit Eli and the Grinch did, not that Max is much of a grump anymore if Eli is around.
After a few minutes, Coach calls us to attention and launches into a speech about conditioning and getting back on the ice after the summer where most of the guys probably slacked off. He’s mid-speech when the door creaks open.
And my entire body freezes.
Logan Brooks.
Holy. Shit.
He looks…different. Older. Broader. Hotter in a way that makes my stomach drop. His hair’s shorter than I remember, and he’s filled out since high school. He’s all smooth muscle and confidence wrapped in a plain black T-shirt that clings to him in all the right places, as though he doesn’t even have to try.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, breath a little uneven. “Traffic was insane on I-94. Won’t happen again.”
Coach narrows his eyes, then jerks his chin toward the empty cubby that I just now notice has his last name along the top. “Grab a spot and gear up. We’ll talk after.”
The rest of the team just nods, curious but unfazed. Transfers happen.
Me? I’m frozen.
I haven’t seen Logan since senior year at the championship. The night I almost…yeah. We don’t talk about that night.
Me, leaning against a hotel hallway wall, watching his face transform, his grin soft for once. My pulse hammering in my ears as he leaned in, close enough that I could smell his body wash and his sweat.
I bailed before his lips could even touch mine. Ghosted him so hard I should’ve left tire tracks.
And now he’s standing inmylocker room. The past is coming back to haunt me. And yeah, things are different than they were three years ago, people are more accepting, but still…the closest I’ve gotten to a relationship or a hook-up since I’ve been here has been when the puck bunnies hit on me. I turn them down. But that’s the closest I’ve been.
I could probably be labeled a monk by now. Just me and my hand.I hold back a snort.
He doesn’t look at me right away. Just strips offhis T-shirt like it’s no big deal. The way his muscles move as he exchanges his clothes for the gear provided for him shows off every defined inch of him. Which, cool. Totally fine. Not like his shoulders and chest are distracting as hell or anything.
Peter elbows me. “Yo, who’s the new guy? He’s ripped.”
“Transfer,” I mutter, eyes locked on Logan before I can stop myself. “Defense.”
Logan finally glances up, and I swear my lungs forget how to work. His gaze hits me, slow and deliberate, and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
And I know, without words, that he remembers.
Oh, I am so screwed.
We go around the room for intros. When it’s his turn, he leans against the cubby like he’s posing for a damn hockey magazine. Or our annual calendar.
“Logan Brooks,” he says, voice smooth and low. “Junior. Defense. Happy to be here.”
He flicks his eyes to me again on the last word, and yep, I feel that all the way to my toes.
Practice is a blur of Coach barking and guys grabbing gear. I’m moving on autopilot, lacing skates and checking pads, pretending my heart isn’t sprinting like it’s the championship all over again.
Logan walks past on his way to the tunnel, and his shoulder brushes mine. Just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to set every nerve in my body buzzing.
