Besides, what man wants to hear about how another man really did a number on your psyche? Most of my girlfriends don’t know. My family doesn’t know. Logan should be the last person I’m confiding in.
We get to the living room, and his face is frozen on the huge screen above the fireplace.
“You were watching the game?” he asks.
“Yeah, just getting to the interview part.” The fact that I could recite almost word-for-word what he says is not at all weird.
When I sit on the couch, he sits on the other end, not some different piece of furniture far away from me. Another surge of mint hits my senses, and I want to close my eyes. God, not even that. I want to scooch closer, identify each note of the fragrance on his skin.
Such a bad idea.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask when he doesn’t start the conversation. It’s one thing I’m learning about him—unless he’s in a rare playful mood, he won’t be the first to speak.
“I want to know what it’ll take to get you to come on the road with the team.”
“No one else needs to travel with the team. You have Ken.”
“Ineed you. And I’m not… I don’t say that lightly. That’s not something I just say to anyone.”
If he knew me better, I’d say he phrased that in such a Sawyer-coded way that I can’t help but want to say yes. My veins are on fire with a desire to say yes. Being needed is what got me into trouble with Dalton in the first place. He needed me to win his seat for the Advisory Council. He needed me to show up for him. He needed me to help mingle and convince people he was the right candidate. He needed me to get the Tucker family behind him.
And I did all of it with a song in my heart because I love nothing more than to feel needed.
But his needs sucked almost every ounce of who I am out of me. I shriveled into someone I barely recognized, and I’m only learning to find my shape again.
“When I signed on with the team, I was very clear about what I could provide. You play eighty-two games. Forty-one of those are off island. It’s not a sustainable model for me to keep my practice on island.”
“During the offseason—”
“I’d have no clients left for the offseason. Besides that, I’m one of the few physiotherapists that does pro bono work. Most of my work is for low-income families. If there’s a family that can’t afford physio, I take them on as clients. I really love that part of my job, and I’m starting to love training you too. But I need balance. I can’t go all in with you at the expense of the life I have here.”
He scratches his bearded chin and takes a deep breath. “When I want something, I’m not good at letting it go. Terrible at it. But it’s what got me here in the first place. So it can’t be all bad.”
I don’t say anything, I just wait for him to come to whatever conclusion will either draw this line of thinking to a close or turn into a fight. I can’t lose myself again, and I could so easily lose myself with him. The fire in him, that desire to win, makes me want to spend time with him, be there for him.
Hello unhealthy pattern.
“I would have really appreciated that free physio when I was a kid.” His voice is gruff. “Would’ve meant a lot to me. You’re doing a good thing. Maybe we should train at your office instead of the arena. You can fit those pro-bonos around me, and your days won’t be so long.”
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “That would…” Make my life easier. But his about-face has robbed me of more words.
“All the away games are off the table? Completely?”
“I don’t understand why you want me there.” Which is true. The team’s physiotherapist, Ken, is more than competent. The Bullets hired me to be Logan’s trainer and to help with media training, and instead I’ve transformed into a dual trainer and physiotherapist. Not exactly what I agreed to, but I haven’t minded at all.
“I follow my instincts on the ice and off.” He searches my face, and his expression morphs into some sort of conclusion that causes him to lower his shoulders, as though he’s relaxing intoit. “I’m going to be brutally honest with you, lay all my cards out because that seems to be the only way I know how to do anything with you.”
“Okay,” I say, and I can hear my note of uncertainty.
“I won’t push, and I’ll forget we ever had this conversation, if that’s what you want. No questions asked. No negative consequences for whatever you say in response.”
My heart thrums at the implication that he’s about to say something that’s going to shift our dynamic in a way I’m not sure I’m ready for. But I don’t ask him to stop talking or slow down or reconsider, I just wait.
“There’s something between us. I don’t know what it is. I know you feel it, and I know I feel it.”
He says it with such certainty, completely confident in the vibe that’s been becoming progressively stronger. Somehow, I managed to claw it back after I spent the night at his apartment, but I never felt like I had a good grasp on my feelings, never believed I had full control.
“And I was determined to ignore the attraction or whatever this is the last few weeks, and I will if that’s what you want.”
