I stare at her. “Who what?”
“Who sleeps down the hall and has stupidly nice shoulders,” she mutters into her mug.
I grin. “You think my shoulders are nice?”
“That’syour takeaway? I saidstupidlynice. It’s a burden, really.”
I lean forward just slightly, keeping my voice low. “If it helps, I think about your legs every time I blink.”
Her eyes flick to mine, wide and wild.
“Logan.”
“I’m just being honest.”
She exhales hard, standing up and collecting the plates. “Okay. That’s it. Breakfast is over. I’m going to take a shower and pretend none of this happened.”
“Need help with that?”
She shoots me a look that could kill.
I grin.
“Joking. Sort of. See? I can do neutral.”
She shakes her head as she heads toward the stairs, muttering, “This is going to be a long season.”
And as I watch her disappear, all I can think is:
God, I hope so.
I should’ve known I was in for it the second I walked into the Riverbend Rivets locker room and see streamers taped to my locker like I’m some damn debutante.
“Fresh meat!” someone yells.
Then comes the clapping. Slow, sarcastic, echoing off the concrete walls.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” another voice booms. “Please welcome Mr. Double-A himself—Logan freaking Wade!”
I force a grin, sling my gear onto the bench, and brace for the gauntlet.
A pair of boxers tied in a bow greet me inside my locker, alongside a bottle of baby powder, and a Sharpie. Rookie hazing: minor league edition.
“You’ll need that later when we autograph your ass,” says a guy with too-white teeth and a surfer accent. “Team tradition.”
“Cute,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry,” another adds, “we only haze the ones the coaches actually like.”
I give a little salute. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”
Honestly? I’m fine with all of it. I’ve been around long enough to know how this works. I’m not here to make best friends. I’m here to move the hell up.
And then she walks by.
Blonde hair. Familiar sway in her hips. A fitted team polo and a pencil skirt.
I know her. It’s Maddie.
