TODD
The rink’sthe only place that ever makes sense. Out here, everything’s clean—lines, plays, timing. Predictable. Controlled. My kind of peace. At least, it usually is.
Today, that peace doesn’t stand a chance.
Because Logan is grinning at me from across the blue line like the last three years didn’t happen. As though he didn’t corner me in a hotel hallway after we won the championship, lean in too close, and make my entire world tilt on its axis.
I hadn’t even realized I wanted it—him—until that second. And then I did. And it scared the hell out of me.
So I did what any coward does when faced with something he doesn’t understand. I avoided him, ignored him, acted like it hadn’t happened. And by the time I figured out what it meant, it was too late. He’d transferred, and I told myself it was for the best.
Can you say repressed? Yeah. That’s me. So deep in the closet that even hooking up with random guys on Prism is touch and go.
I shake my thoughts away from hook ups and the closet I live in and try to focus on the ice and puck and everything that has ever made sense. It’s hard with Logan staring at me, tracking my every move. I’m pretty sure he knows. He probably knew back then when he tried to kiss me that I like guys. No way he would have done it if he thought I was straight.
I tighten my grip on my stick, trying to focus on drills, on the sound of blades cutting into ice, on anything but the weight of his stare.
Logan always knew how to get under my skin when we were teammates before. We used to push each other—it made us better players. But he still knows how to do it, without even a single word. It heats my skin, makes me all too aware when he skates too close. And a strange electric sensation in my stomach comes to life when he blocks me and we collide, pads smacking against each other.
And the worst part? My dad’s voice sits somewhere in the back of my head, full of jokes he doesn’t realize are cruel—aboutreal men and hockey—the kind that make sure I keep my mouth shut and my walls up, even now.
Out here, I’m Captain Shaw. Leader. Focused. Dependable. Not the guy who once almost kissed his teammate in a hotel hallway. Not the guy still thinking about it three years later.
I force myself to focus as Coach blows the whistle.
We’ve been running drills all morning. My usual D-partner, Peter, got stuck with a freshman. Coach said he wanted to “see some new chemistry.”
Translation: I’m living in hell.
“Shaw! Brooks!” Coach’s voice cuts through the echo of skates and sticks. “Again—and tighten it up. If you twofigure your timing out, you’ll be a nightmare pair for opposing teams. Nationals are in our reach this year, boys. Don’t blow it.”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, Coach.”
Logan’s smirk says he caught that emphasis onpair.He glides toward me, easy and unbothered, as if this isn’t the most stressful thing that’s happened to me in years.
“You heard the man,” he says, voice low enough only I can hear. “We’re a nightmare together.”
He isn’t wrong. Him being here, on my team, is a living nightmare, but I’m sure that’s not what Coach or he means.
“Focus on the drill,” I snap.
He shrugs, grin lazy, showing off a dimple in his cheek I’ve never noticed before. “Sure thing, Captain.”
I push off, skating backward as the drill starts. He comes at me fast—showy, smooth, confident in a way that makes my pulse tick up. I cut him off, stick out, forcing him to shift his weight. For half a second, our eyes lock.
That spark hits again—sharp, hot, and unwanted.
I hate that stupid electric jolt that shoots through me. Hate that I’m reacting to him in any way.
He fakes left, tries to dart around, but I read him and throw my body into position—enough pressure to knock him slightly off balance. He recovers quick, chasing the puck toward the boards with a laugh that hits me square in the chest.
“That all you got?” he taunts over his shoulder.
My jaw tightens. “I can bench-press you if I need to.”
“Promises, promises,” he sing-songs, that wide grin flashing as he circles back toward me.
And damn it, I feel it again—the pull, the heat under myskin that has nothing to do with the ice or the workout. It’s all him, and this building…I don’t know…want? Lust?
