Daniel smirks. “If you say so.”
And of course that’s the moment Logan tilts his head back, water sliding down his throat, like some slow-motion Gatorade commercial meant to ruin my life. He wipes hismouth with the back of his hand, eyes glinting with pure amusement.
“Sure, Captain,” he says, voice lazy and warm, then he locks eyes with Daniel as he repeats my words, “He’s just competing. He doesn’t like dudes.”
Heat crawls up my neck and under my helmet. “Shut up and play,” I snap, because what else can I do?
“Whatever you say.” His smirk is lethal. If he keeps that up, I might actually combust right here on the bench.
Another whistle. Back on the ice.
We go harder this round. Every time I think I’ve shaken him, he’s there, a shadow at my side. He steals the puck once, twice, and goads me for it under his breath.
When I finally check him into the boards, it’s…way harder than necessary. He barks out a laugh as he skates it off, like he knows exactly why I did it.
The scrimmage ends with Coach calling us to center ice. I can barely hear his speech over the roar of my own thoughts.
Logan Brooks is back in my life. He’s in my space. He’s in my head.
And if I’m not careful, he’s going to drag me right back to the night I’ve been trying to forget.
By the time Coach releases us, I’m drenched. Sweat runs down my spine under my pads, and my legs are jelly. I’m not out of shape—it’s the mental Olympics that’s killing me.
I skate off fast, desperate for the safety of the locker room.
The room is a mess of chatter, the sharp tang of hockey sweat and stinky gear thick in the air. Peter is already stripping down, humming some dumb song, and Daniel’s leaning against his locker, scrolling his phone like he didn’t just callme homoerotic on the bench. Eli’s shedding his gear like he’s in some sort of race with someone, and he’s the first one to the showers. He must be meeting the Grinch for lunch or something.
I yank off my helmet and toss it into my cubby a little too hard. My hair is soaked, sticking to my forehead. I need to cool off—like, actual ice-bath cool off.
Logan strolls in last, of course. He’s always had that unhurried swagger, the kind that says he knows people are watching. He drops his stick, peels off his gloves, and pulls his jersey over his head in one smooth motion.
My brain short-circuits.
He’s…yeah, a second look doesn’t change my opinion. Bigger than in high school. Broader shoulders, cut abs, a smattering of dark hair trailing under the waistband of his compression shorts and over his pecs. It looks soft. My fingers twitch involuntarily.
I snap my eyes back to my skates like they’re suddenly the most fascinating objects on Earth.
“Good scrimmage,” Peter says, smacking Logan’s shoulder as he passes.
Logan grins. “Thanks. Shaw made me work for it.”
I freeze halfway through unlacing my skates. “It’s practice,” I say stiffly. “Everyone works for it.”
Logan leans against the cubby two feet from me, close enough that I can smell the mix of sweat and faint cologne that’s going to haunt me in my sleep. “Sure. But not everyone looks like they’re trying to murder me with their eyes while doing it.”
I glare up at him. “I wasn’t?—”
“Relax.” He smirks, tilting his head. “It’s cute.”
I almost choke on air. “Cute?”
“Yeah. You get all serious when you’re focused. Brow furrowed. Jaw tight. Little crease right here.” He taps his own forehead. “It’s adorable.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Words are gone. Completely gone.
Daniel, of course, notices. “Oh my God. He’s flirting with you.”
“I am not!” I blurt, heat crawling up my neck.
