Logan tilts his head, that lazy grin softening into something I can’t read. “You didn’t even finish your drink.”
“I wasn’t feeling it.”
“Or maybe…” He steps closer, and the night shrinks around us. “…you didn’t like seeing me have a good time.”
My jaw tightens. “Not everything’s about you, Brooks.”
He laughs under his breath, as though I’ve just confirmed whatever he was fishing for. “Sure, Captain. Keep telling yourself that.”
I start walking, needing space, but his footsteps fall in beside mine. For a guy who just owned beer pong, he’s annoyingly steady.
“You ever just…have fun?” he asks.
“This is me having fun. Leaving before I get a headache.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe me. “You know, I think you’d surprise yourself if you let go once in a while.”
“Not interested.”
He chuckles, low and knowing. “You keep saying that, but the way you look at me on the ice? Or in the locker room? Pretty sure your body’s not on board with the plan.”
My ears burn. “I don’t like guys, and you’re drunk.”
“Not even close.” His voice dips warm and confident, ignoring the first half of my statement. “I just pay attention.”
The sidewalk stretches in front of us, quiet except for our footsteps and the echo of things I can’t let myself say.
I pick up my pace, hoping he’ll get the hint, but Logan matches me stride for stride like we’re tethered.
“You don’t have to walk me home,” I mutter.
“Who said I was walking you home?” His tone is light, teasing. “Maybe I just like the cool fall air.”
“Then go enjoy it somewhere else.”
He laughs softly, the sound curling around me in the dark. “You really hate me that much?”
I stop at the crosswalk, fists tightening in my pockets. The truth catches in my throat, sharp and inconvenient. “I don’t hate you.”
He leans in just enough that I catch the faint scent of his soap, the one that clung to the locker room showers earlier. “Good. I’d hate to think all this chemistry is one-sided.”
My pulse kicks hard enough I swear he can hear it. “You’re imagining things.”
Logan just grins, stepping backward across the street like he’s not afraid of traffic, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Keep lying toyourself.”
I make it to my building first, heart pounding, and I can still feel his gaze on me as I swipe my keycard. Even inside the lobby, warm air washing over me, he’s under my skin.
No amount of cold showers or extra laps at practice is going to scrub that out.
The dorm building is quiet as I head back to my room, the muffled hum of some distant party the only noise bleeding through the walls. My shoes squeak faintly on the linoleum as I climb the stairs to my floor, my pulse still refusing to settle.
I tell myself it’s just from the walk. Just the cool air.
It’s not.
I swipe my key and push into my room. My side of the dorm is neat, the way I left it—bed made, gear bag in the corner, a single hoodie tossed on the chair. Across the room, Peter’s desk is a disaster zone of notebooks and protein bar wrappers. He’s still out, probably chasing that blonde from his chem class.
I kick off my sneakers and sink onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms over my face.
