Burn it away.
Scrub it off.
Except it doesn’t work like that.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the tile. And all I can see is him—Logan—grinning like the devil, mouthing off, taking control in a way that made me melt from the inside out.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’tneedit. But I do, and I’m already hard. Already aching for release.
Already remembering.
The way he looked at me like I was his. The drag of hisfingers down my stomach. The heat in his voice when he called me baby right before?—
“Fuck,” I mutter, wrapping a hand around myself and pumping slow, like I can keep this clinical. Like it’s just about release. Just about moving on.
It isn’t.
It never fucking is with him.
My hand moves faster. I bite down on a moan. Chase the memory of his mouth on mine. His voice in my ear. The sting of his teeth. The press of his body.
The words he said…
“You’re such a good fucking boy. My fucking boy.”
That’s all it takes.
I come hard, forehead still pressed to the tile, knees damn near giving out. It’s messy and fast and way too real. But for a second—just one—I feel… better. Like I can breathe again.
Like maybe I can make it through the day without combusting.
Without givingeverythingaway.
I rinse off, force my body to relax, and shut the water off with a sharp twist.
Back to reality. Back to practice. Back to pretending Logan Brooks is just a teammate.
And not the reason I’m losing my damn mind.
TWELVE
TODD
I can’t stop thinkingabout it.
Abouthim.
About how everything I thought I had locked down in my head has officially turned into a fucking war zone.
And yet Logan? He’s acting like nothing happened. As though he didn’t spend Friday night buried inside me, whispering filthy things into my ear, and calling mebabyas he filled me with his come.
He’s skating like usual—grinning during warmups, teasing Peter about his footwork, tapping sticks with Daniel as they fly past the blue line in perfect sync. Singing with Eli when he breaks out in Christmas Carols three months too early. He’s not evenlookingat me, which is somehow worse.
Because I can’t stop looking athim.
The way his jersey rides up when he stretches. The cocky flick of his wrist as he slaps a pass. The goddamn smirk he gives Peter when Coach curses loud enough for the rafters to shake.
As if none of it means anything. Like he didn’tfuck meso goodand then let me fall asleep with his arms around me like that was just...standard protocol.
