“Hey, Captain,” he says under his breath, like a secret. “Been a while.”
I swallow hard and follow him, praying nobody can hear the way my pulse is losing its mind.
This season? Just got complicated.
By the time we enter the rink, my nerves are fried.
Cold air blasts against my face as I step out onto the ice, and usually, that first scrape of my blades across the surface settles me. Not today. Not with Logan Brooks ten feet ahead of me, gliding onto the rink like he owns the place.
I hate how good he looks in our jersey.
“Alright, warm-up laps!” Coach yells.
The guys take off. I fall in line, captain-mode on autopilot, calling out reminders about spacing and form. But my attention keeps drifting to Logan. He’s smooth. Faster than I remember. Like he’s spent the last three years getting better just to screw with me.
By the time we shift into passing drills, I’m sweating for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio.
Coach claps his hands. “Split into teams for scrimmage!”
Of course, Logan ends up next to me.
“Lucky me,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. His grin is pure trouble.
“Yeah, we’ll see how lucky you feel when I check you into the boards,” I shoot back.
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Promises, promises.”
We line up for the faceoff. He leans in close as we crouch. “Relax, Captain. You’re so tense, it’s like you’re afraid of me.”
I’m not. I just…okay, maybe a little.
The puck drops. Instinct takes over. I explode forward, my stick connecting cleanly as I pass to Peter. We cycle it back and forth, but Logan is right there every second—fast, relentless, brushing against me every time we cross paths.
I’m hyper-aware of everything: the heat radiating off him, the rasp of his breath, the way his shoulder clips mine like it’s an accident.
It’s not.
The first check comes fast. He corners me against the boards, hip to hip, the thud rattling through my bones as my back hits the glass. My pulse spikes.
“Still soft,” he murmurs, low enough that only I catch it.
I shove off and spin, passing the puck down the line just to prove I’m not rattled. But my hands are sweating inside my gloves, and my heart is doing Olympic-level gymnastics.
We trade goals. We trade hits. He plays hard but clean, all smooth edges and sharp smirks, and I hate that part of me is having fun. I haven’t felt this alive on the ice in…God, maybe ever.
When the whistle blows for a switch, we skate to the bench, chests heaving.
Peter elbows me, grinning. “You two gonna fight or make out?”
My stomach nosedives. “Make out?” I choke, way too loud. “I don’t—I don’t make out with guys.”
Peter laughs. “Jeez, chill. I’m joking.”
“Yeah, well…” I fumble with my water bottle like it’s personally attacking me. “Great joke.”
Daniel, perched a few seats down, lifts an eyebrow. The one of the only openly gay guys on the team besides Eli, he has that calm, all-seeing vibe that makes me want to sink into my pads. “Joking or not, he’s not wrong. The energy over there? Very…homoerotic.”
I nearly spit my water. “Homoerotic? No. No homoerotic anything. He’s—he’s defense. I’m a defenseman. We’re teammates. That’s it.”
