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The smile Logan gives me then is nothing short of dazzling and does very little to stop any of my heart palpitations. But by the time the waitress comes back with our drinks and takes our orders, I’ve decided to allow myself to forget.
To forget it’s fake.
To forget my stupid turtle shell.
To forget anything outside of this table and this moment with Logan Barnes, who is still holding my hand.
This decision to have temporary and selective amnesia does wonders for my mood. As do the breadsticks and whipped butter the waitress leaves us. Plus the promise of even more food—the mere thought of pumpkin ravioli has me excited. I have no idea when I last ate. The days and weeks leading up to a game are long and busy, especially the ones with filming added in. I don’t think I’ve had more than a chai latte today. No wonder I’m losing it.
Logan smiles knowingly as I scrape the bottom of the butter dish with the last breadstick.
I point what’s left of it at him. “If you so much as hint that I was hangry earlier, Iwillkick you in the shins.”
“I would never!”
“Smart man. Speaking of your astute mental capabilities, now will you tell me why you got into it with that fan?”
Logan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I wish I could be mad about your unwillingness to let this go. But your tenacity is one of the things I admire most about you.”
Well, okay then. The man can hand out free compliments all he wants while I’m living in amnesia mode.
“Thank you.” When he starts playing with his silverware, still not answering, I debate letting it go. But if he admires my tenacity, I guess I better live up to it. “So?”
Logan presses his fingertips into the tines of his fork, one finger at a time. “Stupid story really. I mean, I was stupid.”
He shakes his head, and I lean forward and take his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
What’s weird is that itfeelslike the most natural thing in the world.
“The guy followed me around, just saying stupid stuff about the team. Our losses. My injury. How it wouldn’t matter if the Hurricanes let me go. Nothing I’m not used to or can’t handle. But then he … made a comment about my scar.”
Logan lifts his fingertips to his face, touching the scar that runs from his mouth to his chin. I’ve always found that scar alluring but never knew where it came from. He’s had it as long as I’ve known him.
Dropping his eyes to the table, Logan says, “Normally, I’m fine with that too. I mean, I grew up with kids calling me scarface.”
Great. Now I want to go back in time and throw punches at some little bullies. I’d also like to get out of my chair and give Logan a hug. Instead, I squeeze his fingers tighter.
“It just hit me wrong that night. I was in a dark place after spending so much time off, and I got the impression the team was planning to loan me out. So, when the guy kept saying no one wanted me and then mentioned my scar … I just kind of lost it, you know?”
I want so badly to ask more questions, curiosity fueling question after question. But I force myself to wait. To listen.
Logan traces the scar again, and I want to be the one touching it. “One of my mom’s boyfriends did this,” he says, and I am wholly unprepared for the intense wave of emotion that slams into me at his words. He must see this on my face because Logan shakes his head. “Not on purpose or anything.”
“Does it matter?” It takes effort to squeeze the words out. My throat is tight and my hands are suddenly freezing.
“A little. I mean, it would be a different thing if any of the losers she dated hit me on the regular. They didn’t,” he adds quickly when I make a strangled noise.
“So how did it happen?” I’m not sure I want to know, but Ineedto know.
“He and Mom had been drinking or were high. I happened to walk by when he was gesturing wildly—with a beer bottle in his hand. I probably needed stitches but they were watching a football game, so… ”
He shrugs. Shrugs. And I want to do more than wrap him up in a hug. I want to go track her down wherever she is now and yell at her for not protecting herson. For not loving him the way he deserves.
As controlling and awful as my dad can be at times, I never doubted his love. He just has more specific ideas of what my life should look like. Even that, though, is a form of caring.
While Logan had … none of that.
I know he would hate for me to tell him I’m sorry, so I don’t. “I’ve always liked your scar,” I say instead.
