“Yeah,” he says easily, grin tilting. “I’m new in town. Wouldn’t mind a tour guide.”
She glances at me for some reason—maybe because I’m the only one not smiling—and I unclench my jaw long enough to shove a fry in my mouth like I don’t care.
Then she grabs a napkin, scribbles something down, and slides it toward him with a flirty wink.
“Thanks, hon.” Logan tucks it into his pocket, eyes flicking back to me just long enough for my pulse to spike.
Daniel snickers under his breath. “And the man scores.”
I grip my water glass, suddenly desperate to leave.
Daniel’s still laughing when I shove my plate away. I can’t sit here another second, not with Logan tucking that napkin into his pocket like he might actually use it.
“I gotta get back to the rink,” I mutter, nudging Daniel out so I can get out of the booth.
Peter blinks. “Already?”
“Coach wants me to run extra drills,” I lie. Maybe it’s not a total lie—he did say we needed more work—but mostly I just need air. Space. A room without Logan Brooks in it.
“Don’t tire yourself out, Captain,” Logan says, voice warm and mocking all at once. He’s lounging there and acting as though he owns the place, his arm still draped across the booth behind Peter, burger half-gone. “I’ll be there in a few. Wouldn’t want my partner practicing without me.”
Partner. The word hits like a body check.
I mumble something noncommittal as I drop my portion of the bill plus tip to the table, then push through the diner door, and let the warm air slap me in the face. My skates and gear are back at the rink, and the quiet of the empty rink is suddenly the only thing I want.
Because out here, with nobody watching, it’s easier to forget the way he smiles like he already knows he’s under my skin.
By the time I’m across the rink parking lot, my pulse is still hammering for all the wrong reasons.
Inside, the locker room is mostly empty, the hum of the vending machine the only noise. Coach is at his desk in his office when I pass, reading over a stack of forms with a pen tucked behind his ear. He glances up, eyebrows shooting up.
“Shaw? Thought you’d be stuffing your face somewhere. You’re back early.”
I keep my voice even, casual. “Figured I’d get a few more drills in. Never enough practice, right?”
He studies me for a second, then nods slowly. “That’s the attitude that gets us to Nationals. Ice is yours for the next hour—don’t burn yourself out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Coach.”
I grab my stick and pull my skates back on, not bothering with all of my pads for running drills, the familiar ritual calming me. Out on the ice, it’s quiet—no Logan, no Daniel or Eli, no teasing or smirks. Just the scrape of blades and the echo of the puck as I pass it off the boards.
Alone, I can almost pretend I’m just…normal. A guy who loves hockey. A captain who doesn’t get rattled by some cocky transfer with a smile that feels like a loaded weapon.
The puck smacks the back of the net with a satisfying clang. I chase down another one, line up, and fire again. Harder. Cleaner. Over and over until my lungs burn and my legs ache, the rhythmic slap of rubber against ice is the only sound in the arena.
The door to the rink squeaks open. My chest tightens before I even look.
Logan steps onto the ice like he owns it, a navy beanie pulled low over his hair, stick balanced casually across his shoulders. He doesn’t say a word as he glides toward center ice, and for a stupid second, I think maybe he’s going to leave me alone.
Nope. He drops his stick and starts his warm-up stretches, slow and lazy.
I try not to look. I really do. But it’s impossible to ignore the way he bends forward, folding in half against the ice, the long lines of his legs in those black compression pants. Then he straightens and swings around, and twists his hips, low and controlled, like he’s grinding into the ice.
I swallow hard, jerking my gaze back to the puck. Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed burned into my brain.
Another slap shot rings out.
“You always practice like you’re mad at the net?” His voice carries across the ice, teasing, humor lacing his words.
