“Is there a world in which one kiss wouldeverbe enough? ’Cause I don’t think I live in that one.”
Right now, with my thumping heart and tingles down my spine, I’m almost high enough with desire to find out beyond any doubt which world I live in.
“I should go,” I say, stepping around him.
He trails me to the front entrance, and when I step out and turn to thank him, one shoulder is propped against the doorway. There’s something about the way his gaze sweeps over me, like he could eat me up and then beg for seconds that makes my whole lower half turn to liquid.
That look should be illegal.
“If you change your mind…” Logan says. “You know where I live.”
“I won’t. But if you change yours…”
“I know where you live,” he says with another almost smile. “But you’d have to invite me.”
“True, and I’d only do that if you changeyourmind.”
“I think we’re at an impasse, doc. As much as I’d love to be almost anywhere else with you.”
I can’t help one last lingering glance at his tall, athletic build framed in the doorway. Neither of us seems willing to put our pasts aside, and maybe that’s for the best. We’re still in a place where we can work together without our relationship being strained, or at least I think we are.
When I glance back just before I step into the elevator, he’s still in the doorway watching me, and I wonder whether months of this raging sexual tension with no chance of an outlet might actually be the worst outcome of all.
Chapter Seventeen
Logan
It’s killing me to be around her and not be with her. Every glance, every touch causes me to lock down my inner and outer feelings. Being around her isn’t easy anymore; it’s really fucking hard. We’re back to pretending that the sexual tension isn’t there, isn’t almost all-consuming, when webothknow better. Confronting our feelings seemed like a good idea, but it’s only made ignoring them now even more tense and artificial. Before I knew for sure she felt the same way, being around her was actually easier, even though I thought it wasn’t possible for it to be any harder at the time.
After another month of games and practices and training, with me playing like I’m on fire on home ice and like I’ve been given hypothermia at away games, my rioting emotions are starting to culminate in stupid penalties and fights on the ice that I shouldn’t be having. After the first year in the league, I got my temper under control. Or at leastmostlyunder control. Thetools I learned in therapy to keep that anger in check seem to be malfunctioning.
“We’re going for a drink,” Auston tells me after our third away game in a row results in another loss and a ten minute misconduct penalty—my first. “Radek, we’re taking Bishop for a drink and a chat.”
“Yes, we are,” Radek agrees from across the dressing room. “We have one more away game this run, and this bullshit needs put on ice.”
“Nice pun,” I say, stuffing the last of my equipment into my bag.
“Shitty playing,” he counters.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, as though I don’t care when I do—a lot.
“It’s not ‘yeah, yeah,’” Radek says. “Our away games are stacked like this all season. You can’t play like a superstar at home and play like a trash can on the road.”
“Usually we say ‘dumpster fire,’” Auston says, “but the idea of Bishop skating while in the shape of a trash can is not terrible.”
Part of my roller-coaster playing is the stark difference between our overly enthusiastic home crowd and the away fans treating us like garbage. But I know that the other part of my mental game that’s suffering is tied to Sawyer. She’s in my head when she shouldn’t be, and that’snotnormal. This weekend she’s at her sister, Maren’s, royal wedding to Brice Summerset, and I’ve been following all the social media posts on the big event. Every time I catch a glimpse of her in one of them, I just miss her more.
When we slide into a booth at the pub attached to our hotel, I order water while the other two get beer.
“It’s not just the crowd,” Auston says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
“We all want the same thing here, man. Bellerive might not have been our first choice, but it’s a fresh start. If you lose yourshit during every away game, we’re going to tank the season. Nobody wins anything like that. So, what’s rubbing you the wrong way?”
“I suspect,” Radek says with a grin, “it’s not what but who, and it’s that she’s not rubbing him at all.” He gives me an exaggerated wink.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
