“What can I say?” I shrug. “I was born to be sassy. And since I know you secretly love my sass, I’m going to ask again. You’re not going to go to practice today, are you?”
He scoffs like I just asked him if he was willing to run naked down Venice Beach. Which, honestly, I bet he would do because he knows what he’s working with. “Why wouldn’t I go to practice?”
Ah, we’re back to stubborn Logan. Not that he ever left. “Because you got hit hard on Friday and kept playing, and I’d bet that bruise is worse than what I saw.” I reach out, curious to see if he’ll let me tug on his collar again, but he grabs my wrist. I huff. “Logan, you can’t lift your arm!”
“I’m fine.”
“And Beef Wellington is a totally normal cat.”
“I know my limits, love.”
“Do you?” Tugging my hand free, I fold my arms and hope that will make me feel less worried about this man I barely know. With his impressive career, something I’ve spent more time researching than I care to admit, he probably does know his limits, but he also strikes me as the kind of guy who ignores the warning signs of a deeper injury and pushes through the pain. “Logan, you really should—”
“It was good to see you, Sav,” he says, cutting me off as he reaches forward and takes me by the shoulders. For a moment, as he gazes into my eyes, I think he might be gearing up to say something sweet like he’s done over text, but then he shifts me to the side, away from his car. “I need to get to practice.” Then he slips into the car and drives off.
Yeah, if he thinks I’m going to drop this, he clearly doesn’t know me at all.
Chapter 11
Savannah
Savannah:
Hey Moxie, I was wondering if you could let me into the Thunder training facility.
That may not be the best text to send out of context, so I quickly send another.
Savannah:
I need to tell you something about Logan’s shoulder.
I’m not sure why I don’t just tell Moxie that Logan’s injured, but having it in written form feels incriminating. Like I’m leaving a paper trail. Granted, I shouldn’t have followed Logan in the first place. I am overstepping in so many ways, but in for a penny…
While I wait for Moxie to respond, I watch a few men cross the parking lot to the facility, all of them beautifully sculpted but not quite matching up to Logan’s sheer perfection. Theentire team is fit and muscly—I thought football players were built until I paid more attention to rugby—but there’s something about Logan that is unique to him. He holds himself differently than the others.
Logan has every reason to be confident and proud, and it shows in his bearing.
After ten minutes with no response on my phone, I slip from my car, wondering if I can find someone who will either let me in or get Moxie for me. As I was reminded when I went to last week’s game, Moxie’s not just a player. He’s the team captain, which means if there’s anyone who can make sure Logan doesn’t hurt himself more, it’s him.
I pause halfway to the building as my stomach churns. This isn’t just overstepping. This is crossing a major line, and chances are high that Logan will fire me if I involve myself in his personal business like this. I’ll be back to barely keeping my head above water and without any solid leads.
I’ll lose the tenuous friendship building between us and won’t see him ever again.
It probably means something that losing my personal relationship with Logan, despite the many reasons not to like the guy, feels worse than losing his money.
“But I’m a sucker with a bleeding heart,” I mutter and press forward. I can’t let Logan hurt himself, even if I have to say goodbye to protect him.
Hesitating at the facility door, I check my phone one more time, but Moxie hasn’t seen the text. It makes sense, if he’s in the training room or on the field, but I’ve gotten so used to him answering quickly that the lack of response is only adding to myanxiety. What if Logan is already working out and aggravating his shoulder? I don’t know anything about injuries, but there’s no way he’s doing himself any favors by pretending he’s fine.
“Can I help you?”
I jump at the sound of a man’s voice behind me, and I turn to explain why I’m lurking. But my words catch in my throat when I recognize the man standing a few feet away with a look of suspicion in his eyes. Squeaking out a sound that nowhere near resembles a word, I clear my throat and try again. “You’re Cole Evanson.”
His eyebrows drop lower as he looks me over, and I have never been more intimidated in my life. Not even by Logan, who has at least a few inches on this guy. But this isCole Evanson. Not only is he friends with some of the most famous people in the world—from movie stars to a literal queen—and has his own following from his days of playing in the NFL, but he’s also the exact person I’ve been hoping Logan will introduce me to.
Heownsthe Thunder.
This is either fate or an opportunity for me to crash and burn and ruin my chances of working with the team.
