The final road game for the Bellerive Bullets, before they return to the island for another stint of home games, goes much better than any of the ones that came before it. Something has shifted in Logan, and I’ve been rewinding key parts trying to figure out what changed in him. But his “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, which didnotseem to be working on the road, has flipped from causing mayhem on the ice to scoring goals and making plays. Bellerive won their first away game of the season by a massive margin against a team that, on paper, they shouldn’t have beaten.
A bright, shining beacon of what the teamcouldbe. Hope. Possibilities. Logan must be thrilled, but he hasn’t texted me since I sent a message congratulating him.
My emotions cannot handle how much I love watching him play the game. At first, I used to view each hockey game throughthe trainer lens. What new moves or training aspects could we add to make him better?
But I don’t need to do that anymore because I know the game so well, and I’ve watched him play in games and practices and during idle times when he’s on the ice for no other reason than that he loves it so much. Watching him isn’t even a conscious choice anymore.
For the first time in my life, I understand how people’s emotions can skyrocket to heaven and then fall into hell with the fortunes of their team. Though, for me, I think it might beLogan’sfortunes that determine my mood.
He played better tonight. The text from King Alexander arrives just before my father’s text.
Finally got his head out of his ass. Much less eloquent, and not really accurate.
Was getting worried Dalton and his naysayers might be right. Alex texts again.
Dalton hated the idea of the team coming here in the first place. He considered the arena a colossal waste of taxpayer dollars, and he hasn’t truly been wrong. Bellerive didn’t need a professional sports team, and the tropical island definitely didn’t need a team that played in freezing temperatures. For so many reasons, it had been ludicrous. Everyone knew that Alex pushed the idea so hard to get a rink for his beloved wife, so it was a small miracle he got enough people on his side to make it work.
Of course, Alex can be persuasive when he’s motivated to win, which is a lot like another guy I know.
My phone buzzes in my hand with a text from a familiar number. Though it’s not the text I was expecting to receive.
Invite me over.
My skin heats as I stare at the words, and my heart jumps to life. For the last month, we’ve danced around each other duringtraining sessions, after home games, and to see Logan’s text sitting on my screen is a jolt to my senses.
I was sure Logan wouldn’t change his mind, even though I’ve been sorely tempted to change mine. If I hadn’t made a deal with myself to stop caving to the needs and desires of men at my own expense, I would have told him I didn’t care about the timeline anymore. Some sessions I was one more brush of his hand, skimmed contact of our bodies, from throwing away my resolve.
Maintaining any professionalism between us has been a slow, painful torture that has had me leaving every session on edge, desperate for a way to release the escalating sexual tension.
I should text him back and ask if he’s sure, or maybe I should clarify what he means or wants.
You should come over.
The text turns blue on my phone before I consider the full implications of what I’ve done. With one message, I’m starting an affair with the star player of the Bellerive Bullets.
I drop my phone onto the couch, suddenly realizing that my sleep shorts and my braless tank top might not be how I want to greet him.
Then the doorbell sounds, and I check the time on my phone. I’m an idiot. Of course he’d be almost here when he texted. Classic Logan. If he’s caving, he knows I’m a sure thing. He plays to win.
Screw it. I’ll answer the door just like this.
I leave my phone on the couch, and I go to the front entrance. When I open the door, I leave my hand stretched along the edge. Backlit from the house, my paper-thin fluorescent yellow sleep outfit is probably close to transparent. Provocative confidence that feels familiar and foreign settles over me. Did I used to be like this? Or do I just wish I had been?
A slow smile spreads across Logan’s face. He doesn’t even try to hide how his gaze travels over me, taking in my outfit,lingering on my breasts that have puckered either from the night air or him—probably both.
“Waiting for me?” he asks.
“For you to come to your senses?” I ask, matching his cocky grin. “One hundred percent.”
He steps across the threshold, and one of his arms eases around my waist, drawing me flush against him. He peers down at me, but emotions are flickering across his face in a pattern I can’t quite decode.
“Tell me what you’re agreeing to, Logan.”
“We’re not hiding. But we’re casual, even if it’s just you and me. End of this season, we’re done. No matter what. I can’t waste your time.” He swallows after the last line, as though it’s the hardest for him to reconcile.
I nod, even though my stomach sinks at the finality of what we’ve agreed. We’re not a good long-term fit, but I’ve never been the type to have meaningless sex.
Out with the old and in with the new, I guess.
