We shut down two rushes like it’s nothing, forcing bad-angle shots and cutting off lanes until the other team’s left looking frustrated and winded.
On our next swap out, we glide back to the bench. Coach grabs my jersey to stop me.
“You two got eyes in the back of your heads or something?”
I shrug, breathing hard. “Just reading the ice.”
Coach grins. “If there’s scouts in the stands, they’re watching that line. Keep it up.”
I glance over at Logan as we settle on the bench, both of us sweating, grinning, adrenaline still running hot.
He leans in, breathless. “You‘re making me look good out there, Captain.”
I bump my shoulder into his. “You’re welcome, Romeo.”
He snorts and takes a long drink of water from his bottle. “Keep that up, Shaw, and you won’t be walking right tomorrow.”
The words are so low I know the others couldn’t have heard them, but I can feel the blush heating my cheeks anyway. At least I can blame it on working hard out there. And not on what he just said.
I don’t respond—can’t. Not with that stupid grin trying to crawl across my face and the rush of heat crawling down my spine.
Logan just smirks and leans back, pretending to focus on the ice like he didn’t just threaten to wreck me in the middle of a Division I game.
Blue comes back for a swap off, and I practically bolt back over the boards, needing the cold air to cool off what Logan’s words set on fire.
We fall right back into rhythm—as though we never left. He clears the crease, I chase down a breakaway. He slaps the puck up the boards, and I’m already there to catch it and send it flying to center ice.
Another assist. Another goal. Another fucking grin from Logan as if he knows we’re untouchable.
And maybe, tonight, we are.
The crowd’s electric, feet stomping, cowbells clanging. The student section’s on their feet, screaming chants that don’t even make sense anymore as their team loses.
Logan doesn’t react to the puck bunnies screaming his number or holding up signs. He doesn’t flash his smileat anyone but me. Doesn’t even glance their way. And yeah. That does something to me.
Something warm. Something stupid.
Something that makes me play harder, skate faster, push deeper into the zone just to meet him there—where he’s already waiting.
And when the final buzzer sounds and we’ve won by three, it’s his glove that smacks mine first in celebration, our helmets nearly clashing as we yell something incoherent and ridiculous.
We’re both grinning like idiots as we head for the tunnel. Because that’s the kind of game it was.
And that’s the kind of night I’m hoping it still might be.
TWENTY-FIVE
LOGAN
The Pancake Housesmells like maple syrup and grease and victory.
We’ve crammed the entire team into one whole section of the small little diner, and there’s not nearly enough room for all of us, but nobody cares. We’re still riding the high from the game—laughing, teasing, and high-fiving each other over plates of pancakes, burgers, and fries.
Peter’s arguing with Blue over who blocked the most shots. Eli’s trying to convince the waitress to add whipped cream to his pancakes. Someone dares Daniel to drink the entire container of maple syrup, and he looks like he’s actually considering it. It is pure chaos.
Todd’s across from me in one of the booths, half-listening to Eli while he takes a bite of the grilled cheese the waitress just brought him. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and the noise, and his hair is still a mess from his quick shower after the game.
He looks good.
