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“Too sore to keep skating? Because I have an idea.”
I probably should stop. But I’ve never been big onprobablys.
“I love ideas,” I tell him.
“Be right back.”
Logan disappears through the tunnel, and I take a seat on the players’ bench. I catch sight of Javi standing not too far away in the stands, smiling and shaking his head. I wonder how long he was watching. “Be careful,” he mouths to me. I smile and nod in response, but honestly, it’s far too late forcarefulnow. I’m pretty sure my childhood crush has matured into a whole full-blown infatuation.
Or worse.
When Logan returns, it’s with gloves, sticks, and a puck. His grin is so big and so boyish that I can’t help but smile in response.
“Get out here, Pete. You wanted to play hockey? Let’s play hockey.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
And while there was something magical about skating hand in hand with Logan, having him teach me puck control and how to line up a shot is excellent. I also do not mind even the smallest bit when I need help with my hold and he comes up behind me, placing his arms around me to adjust my grip.
“Slide your hand like this,” Logan says, moving my gloved hand.
“I feel like I’m wearing the equivalent of clown shoes, but on my hands,” I say.
“These are a little big for you, but the principle is the same.” Logan is all business now, adding another version of him to like.
Grumpy Logan is great. Happy, smiling, laughing Logan is fantastic. But all-business Logan practically spooning me as he shows me how to properly grip a hockey stick is my new favorite.
“Your hand should be over top. You see that part of the glove between your thumb and forefinger?” he asks, pointing. “That should line up with the top of the stick. That’s it. Good.”
I consider faking to get him to stay put behind me, wrapped around me like a Logan-scented cloak, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Plus, I’m excited to move on from puck control and start shooting.
We do that next, and I’m terrible but determined. The moment I sink my first shot, albeit in a net unprotected by a goaltender, I squeal. Logan gives me a gloved high-five.
“Nice one, Pete.”
“I had a good teacher. When can we work on hitting?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “We’re not wearing pads. Plus, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
I crowd him, knocking his stick with mine. “You scared?”
“No.”
Logan skates to the goal, retrieving the puck and skating around the back of the goal. Though I probably shouldn’t, I take this as a challenge and come after him, trying to steal the puck. It looks so much easier than it is. I’ve always known this, logically speaking, but it’s a totally different thing to actually be on the ice with someone like Logan. He might be bulky, but he’s full of grace and expertly skilled at keeping the puck just out of reach.
So, I decide to play a little dirty. Who cares if we don’t have pads? It’s not hockey without hitting.
That’s what I’m thinking when I try to slam Logan into the wall.
Trybeing the operative word. He barely budges, and I almost eat it, falling forward on my skates. Logan gets a wicked gleam in his eye, and the next thing I know, I’m the one being slammed—a gentle slam—against the wall. My stickthwacksagainst the plexiglass as Logan’s body presses into mine.
Holy hockey, Batman.
“You see, Parker?” he says, his breath hot on my cheek.
“See what?”
The only thing I see is his face, inches from mine. The only thing I feel is his chest, rising and falling against mine. The only thing I smell is his clean, masculine scent. The only thing I hear is a ringing in my ears that grows louder as we stay suspended like this.
