I shove it down, locking my shoulders, forcing my tone flat. “Less talking, more skating.”
He just laughs, the sound low and rough and too familiar.
Yeah. This is going to be a long season
The guys on the bench are watching, and I know they can feel it—the push, the pull, the something that shouldn’t be there.
I don’t even know what I want to do. Shove him? Kiss him? Skate away and lock myself in the Zamboni closet until the season’s over?
Coach’s whistle cuts through my spiral. “Good! Run it again. You two—extra practice after lunch. We’re gonna make this pair lethal. They won’t know what hit ’em.”
I swear my soul leaves my body.
Logan slows, coasting into a lazy circle around me, the slow curve of his lips carved in pure sin. “Guess we’re stuck together.”
My throat’s dry. I swallow it down, keeping my glare steady even though my pulse is anything but. “We’re here to play hockey. Try to keep up.”
He winks. “Whatever you say, Shaw.”
The whistle blows again before I can fire something back, and we are dismissed for now. His smirk lingers, though—burned into the edges of my vision no matter where I look.
I skate off before he can see how red my face feels under the helmet. My legs move on autopilot, blades cutting across the ice toward the exit as if I can skate the panic out of mysystem. Nationals. Focus on Nationals. Not on…whatever the hell that was.
Peter meets me at the gate, stick tucked under one arm, grinning like he knows something I don’t.
“You survived,” he says.
“Barely,” I mutter, taking my helmet off. My hair’s damp with sweat, heart still hammering from more than the drill. “Extra practice? Seriously?”
“Hey, Coach just wants you two in sync. We’re gunning for Nationals this year. I’d kill for that ring.”
I grunt—because he’s right, and because I can’t exactly say my problem isn’t hockey. It’s the human distraction in a navy jersey with smug brown eyes and a grin that should be illegal.
We hit the locker room, the air thick with the smell of gear that’s seen too many games. I yank my pads off faster than usual, like if I move quick enough, I can outrun the tension still buzzing under my skin.
Logan’s still out there with Daniel and Eli, laughing about something. They’ve become fast friends, apparently. Of course they have.
Peter stretches, rolling his shoulders as he glances over. “You good, man? You’re, like, vibrating.”
“I’m fine,” I say—too fast. My elbow pad slips from my hand and clatters to the floor. “Totally fine.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He doesn’t push, just grabs his hoodie. “You coming for lunch?”
“Yeah. Quick bite before Coach ropes me into hell part two.”
Peter chuckles. “Hey, on the bright side, maybe you’ll end up loving him by the end of the season.”
I freeze for half a second, but he doesn’t notice—he’s already walking off toward the exit.
“Right,” I mutter, forcing my voice steady.
I toss my pads into my cubby, the thud of hard plastic against wood louder than it should be. The sound hangs in the air as I grab my hoodie and follow Peter out.
The hallway’s cooler, quieter, but that doesn’t stop the echo of Logan’s grin from burning behind my eyes—or the sharp, unwanted jolt that still hasn’t faded from my chest.
The local dineris only across the parking lot from the rink, the kind of place with checkered floors and old hockey photos on the walls. Peter and I grab a corner booth, still damp and probably stinking from practice, the warm air from outside clinging to our clothes. My stomach growls loud enough to make him laugh.
“Hungry?”
