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“Batch?” Logan asks.
“Filming several videos at once to post over time. Not every player will be involved in the longer portions. I keep a schedule and make sure it’s spread out pretty evenly.”
There are a few guys who love the spotlight, and so long as their egos don’t become too monstrous, I let them have it. This also keeps the guys who want to do less happy.
I’m not sure how it will work with Logan, who is still looking at me as though I’ve just set fire to his favorite sneakers. On the plus side, the glaring sure is making my crush curl up into a ball in the corner.
Maybe to kill it, all I needed was a little Logan animosity.
Unlike the thousands—millions?—of women who also have crushes on Logan Barnes, mine isn’t because he’s a hot hockey player. It’s not because of his rarely seen crooked grin or the sexy scar running from the corner of his lip down to his chin, or his perfectly disheveled dark hair and piercing green eyes. Not even his broad shoulders, sexy six-pack, or his famously firm backside that’s the face—or would that be butt?—of a big corporate sponsor.
Not that I’magainstany of those assets. They just aren’t my particular crush’s origin story.
No—my crush on hockey’s beautiful bad boy began on a typical Tuesday night fifteen years ago when he shared a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie with me and told my brother to stop being a jerk.
I was ten.
Logan was fourteen.
I guess you could say it was crush at first cookie.
Coach Davis jumps in, relieving me from Logan’s glare. “The Appies are glad to have you, Logan. I know you’ll bring good things to the team. We can hammer out these other details later.”
That famous muscle ticks again in Logan’s jaw, and I think he’s going to argue or maybe insist again that he’s not going to dance no matter what his contract says, but he says nothing.
Good boy. The first stage of acceptance is shutting up.
And just like that, the meeting is over. Finally.
I scurry out of the room, moving down the hall toward the elevator with my wounded pride in hand and my proverbial tail tucked between my legs. Not only did Logan not seem to remember me—ouch—but I can tell he’s going to make my job harder than it has to be.
Short of having some kind of wardrobe malfunction or having someone read out loud my teenage diary confessing my love for Logan, I’m not sure how I could have enjoyed the meeting any less.
To distract myself from obsessing, I check my calendar and to-do list for this week as I step into the elevator. Today is marked as a research, planning, and video editing day for me. The first preseason game is a few weeks away, which means we need to ramp up the actual hockey-playing videos. I’ll schedule time to attend practices and get some footage.
The elevator doors start to close when a big hand appears, forcing them back open.
And then Logan Barnes steps into the elevator.
My lungs deflate. My heart slows to a stop. And my eyes are probably about to pop out of my skull like some kind of cartoon.
Logan steps way too close to me as the doors slide shut behind him. I hold my breath, knowing my weakness for any and all male-scented products. Cologne. Deodorant. Aftershave. I’m a sucker for them all. Logan’s scent is unidentifiable, but spicy and masculine and definitely yummy.
It was one thing to see his handsome face across the conference room. It’s another thing to see—and smell—Logan up close.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Logan stays in my space, those green eyes piercing through me. I suck in a breath, waiting.
Is he this mad about having to do social media?
But as I watch, the hardness in his expression gives way to warmth and amusement. And something else I can’t quite pinpoint. When he smiles, all my malfunctioning organs rev up into hyperdrive. I drop my tablet and don’t even give it a glance.
“Well, well, well,” Logan says. “If it isn’t little Peter Parker, all grown up.”
CHAPTER2
Logan
I’m notsure Parker realizes she’s backing away from me. Not like there’s anywhere to go. And that’s exactly why I cornered her on this elevator.
