He gives me a flat look. “Todd. You’ve been sitting on that bench staring at the same spot on the wall for—” he checks the clock “—my whole shower, which was twelve whole minutes. I counted.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was just…thinking.”
“Uh-huh. Thinking.” He smirks. “Is that what we’re calling it when you’ve got Logan Eyes?”
I frown. “Logan Eyes?”
“Yeah,” he says casually, pulling his shirt over his head. “That glazed-over, soft-as-a-damn-marshmallow expression you get when he leaves a room.”
I groan. “Please shut up.”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “I’m thriving. Now grab your stuff. Before you start sighing at the air where he used to be.”
I shove him lightly as I stand. “You’re an asshole.”
“An asshole who’s buying you lunch,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
THIRTY-NINE
LOGAN
I dropinto my seat with my notebook open, pen ready, doing my best impression of someone who is absolutely going to pay attention in Sports Performance Physiology.
I even write the date in the corner of the page.
That’s where my academic achievements end.
Professor Hilliard starts talking about lactate thresholds and VO2 max curves—stuff I normally eat up because it’s directly tied to the ice and making myself a better player—but all I can hear is Todd’s laugh from earlier. All I can feel is the ghost of his hands on my waist when he kissed me goodbye in the locker room.
I shift in my seat and try to clear my head.
Yeah. Useless.
I flip to a clean page, determined to reset. “Focus,” I whisper under my breath.
My brain:Lol, no.
My knee bounces. I tap the pen. I try to copy a diagram on the board, only to realize halfway through that I’ve drawna stick figure with messy and curly hair instead of a muscle fiber chart.
I stare at it.
It looks vaguely like Todd.
Jesus Christ.
I slam the notebook shut a little too loudly. A girl in front of me turns around and raises an eyebrow. I give her an apologetic nod that probably looks more like a grimace.
Hilliard drones on about anaerobic output. I try to think about conditioning drills. I think about Todd riding me on my couch instead.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
I’m so fucked.
I take a breath. Another. I try grounding myself the way coaches always suggested during high pressure games—two deep breaths, feet flat on the floor, focus on the present.
The present is a joke. The present has Todd’s mouth and Todd’s laugh and Todd’severythingwritten all over it.
I catch myself smiling like an idiot and immediately look down at my desk before anyone sees.
