Page 123 of Defensive Desire

I turn to find Sophia, clipboard in hand, lipstick too perfect for someone who’s been yelling all morning. She gives me a once-over and smirks.

“You ready?”

I blink. “For the line rush? Already got a double batch of mochas queued.”

She smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that means she knows something I don’t.

“I meant… for what comes next.”

I narrow my eyes. “O-kay… You’ve got that matchmaking tone again.”

Before she can respond, the arena lights dim through the window. The blaring music cuts. And the PA system comes to life with the voice of the announcer:

“Good evening, Icehawks! Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin… please welcome to center ice… LOGAN KANE!”

My breath catches.

I lean forward against the counter, pressing both hands to the wood as cheers erupt through the arena like thunder. The lights shift, spotlighting the center of the rink and right down at the side of the boards, there he is.

Logan.

In a fitted gray suit, his old Icehawks jersey slung casually over one shoulder, that ridiculous, perfect smirk on his face as the crowd roars around The Nest.

He raises one hand to wave, looking up into the rafters as flags, scarves and banners get hoisted into the air. Fans simultaneously losing their shit at their retired hero.

I can't help but cup my mouth, a laugh escaping as I watch the scene down on the ice unfold before my eyes.

A group of girls two rows back start chanting Logan's name like a boy band’s in town, and soon, the entire arena is joining in.

I stay frozen behind the counter, heart thudding against my ribs.

The crowd noise swells like a wave as Logan steps onto the ice, his boots echoing in the hush between chants. The spotlight follows him, cutting through the arena glow until he’s center stage, center ice, centereverything.

He looks… ridiculous.

And perfect.

Charcoal-gray suit tailored within an inch of its life. His old Icehawks jersey slung over one shoulder like it’s just a casual fashion accessory and not a retirement symbol about to shatter hearts across Iron Ridge.

His hair’s a little messy, just like it has been every game day since he arrived here all those years ago. There’s a familiar smug smirk curving his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to the entire female population right now.

He lifts a hand to accept the applause.

The crowderupts.

“KANE! KANE! KANE!”

Signs bounce. More teens wave glittery posters with slogans likeStick With Logan ForeverandYou Can Check Me Anytime.A toddler wearing a miniature Icehawks jersey lifts a foam finger nearly the size of his whole body.

Along the bench, the team taps their sticks in rhythm.

Coach Brody stands arms folded, flanked by Blake and Connor, all three nodding like proud dads who just watched their troublemaking son graduatewithoutgetting arrested.

Logan takes the mic from the announcer, spinning it once in his palm.

He waits, letting the crowd quiet just enough.

“Wow. Thank you. Really, that was… amazing,” he starts, and the arena immediately leans in. "I wasn’t planning to do this today, but here we are."