Jesus. Get it together.
I force my gaze away, dropping into my own stretch, but I can still see him in my periphery. Every long, fluid movement. Every deep bend. Every smile he throws to no one in particular that still feels like it’s aimed straight at me. And then, just to make sure I die today, he catches my eye across the ice.
Winks.
Casual as fuck.
I swear under my breath and roll my shoulders like I’m working out a knot, even though the only knot I’ve got is the one forming low in my gut.
“Focus, Shaw,” I mutter, slapping my stick against the ice.
Because if I don’t get my head on straight before puck drop, Logan Brooks is going to be the reason I skate into a wall.
We skate another few drills—tight turns, slap shot practice, passing sequences that are more about rhythm than actual effort. Nothing too intense. Just enough to loosen up.
The stands are starting to fill now, a low murmur building into something more as students and locals trickle in. A sea of jackets and foam fingers and camera phones waiting to catch the first goal.
I drop into a quick crossover drill with Blue and Peter, my skates slicing across the ice, clean as hell. Logan’s on theother side, taking one-timers with Daniel, laughing when Eli teases him for missing the net.
And I’m watching him again.
Of course I am.
He moves like he was made to live on the ice—shoulders loose, eyes sharp, lips curved like he knows the crowd’s already half in love with him. Hell, maybe they are. I’m so locked in that I almost miss her.
Some girl, pressed up against the glass near the far corner. Platinum blonde hair, tight crop top under an open team jacket, as though she bought it just to wear off the shoulder. She knocks on the glass, leans forward with a little wave and a pout that’s straight out of a rom-com.
She’s aiming it at Logan. I stiffen automatically, jaw ticking. My stick taps the ice once. I don’t even know why I care. But Logan doesn’t even glance over.
He doesn’t wave or flirt. Doesn’t so much as give her a second of his attention. Just skates past her like she’s invisible and keeps talking to Daniel.
And something… eases in me.
I don’t know what the hell that feeling is—but it slides through my chest, warm and stupid and way too soft for a guy who doesn’t know what this is between us.
Because he could’ve smiled. He could’ve flirted or soaked up the attention like he always used to in high school.
But he didn’t. He didn’t even look.
We line up for puck drop, Logan just off to my left. He gives a quick glance across the center ice line, sizing up the other team with that sharp glint in his eye, the one that saysbring it on.
He catches me watching and smirks.
Focus, Shaw.
The ref blows the whistle, and we’re off. The game starts fast—puck flying, sticks clashing, bodies checking hard into the boards—but Logan and I move in sync like we’ve been playing together for years, not weeks.
He backs me up on a rush, reading the play before it even forms. I dig the puck out of the corner, send it behind the net, and he’s already there, ready for the transition.
Our team plays like a well oiled machine, and I’m positive Logan and I are at the center of it all. We score again, and the crowd goes wild.
Coach claps once, sharp and loud. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Textbook transition, boys!”
We keep the pressure on. Logan reads every play like it’s a script he helped write. When he moves in, I shift like it’s instinct.
Because it is.
He doesn’t just play with confidence. He plays with trust. And I trust him. Fuck, I trust him…when did that happen? I shove the thought away; I’ll look at it later.
