Logan’s head tilts, slow and deliberate, a smile curving his mouth like he’s savoring the moment. One dark brow lifts. “Pretty sure he was talking about me, Captain.”
Then he winks.
Daniel bursts out laughing. Even Peter snickers, shaking his head like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.
My stomach does a full-on somersault. “I’m hitting the showers,” I mutter, snatching my towel and trying to look like I’m not fleeing the scene of a crime.
“Cool,” Logan says, tone all casual sin. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I nearly trip over my own skate.
The second I’m around the corner and out of sight, I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater for a full minute.
Showers. Right. Neutral territory. Totally normal. Definitely not a confined, echoing space where a guy can walk in naked and ruin your life.
I yank off the rest of my gear fast, stuff it into the laundry bin, and step into the first empty stall. Cold tile. Steam is already curling in the air. I crank the water on hotter than usual, letting it sting my shoulders. Anything to shock the Logan-Brooks-shaped thoughts out of my head.
Of course, my brain doesn’t cooperate.
All I can think about is him smirking across the bench.The way he winked like we had some secret. As if he could still read me after three years.
Pretty sure he was talking about me. His voice echoes in my skull.
Footsteps scuff against the wet floor, and I freeze.
“Hope you saved me some hot water, Captain.”
My stomach drops. Logan’s voice, way too close.
I don’t look over the low divider, but I feel him there, the weight of his presence flooding the room. He’s humming under his breath as he steps into the stall next to mine, water hissing on.
I scrub at my hair like it’s a life-or-death mission. “You don’t have to shower next to me, you know. There are, like, ten other stalls.”
He laughs, low and unbothered. “Yeah, but none of those come with free entertainment.”
I almost drop the soap. “Entertainment?”
“You’re so jumpy,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s adorable.”
“I’m not jumpy.” My voice cracks.
A beat of silence. Then, softer, teasing, “Still lying to yourself, huh?”
I grip the edge of the tile, water cascading down my back, and pray my face isn’t as red as it feels.
The showers have never felt smaller. Or hotter.
The water hisses, echoing off the tile, and I focus on it like it can drown him out. Steam curls around us, warm and heavy, making it hard to breathe.
Then his voice cuts through, even softer now.
“You're still in the closet, huh?”
My stomach twists. “I’m not?—”
“Yeah, you are.” There’s no teasing in his tone now. “Justlike that night.”
The words slam into me harder than any check on the ice. I grip the soap bar, knuckles white.
