Page 3 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

LOGAN

T he drive from the city to Ann Arbor is longer than I expected.

And it’s silent. Awkwardly silent. The cab driver tried to make conversation in that way that cab drivers do, but the poor guy wasn’t getting any more than an occasional one-word response, so he gave up after a while and now it’s just the three of us, driving through the night to the tune of nothing but the tires treading the asphalt.

I find myself glancing across the back seat more times than I care to admit, watching Millie as she stares out the window, the street lights illuminating her pretty face every few seconds. Man, she’s beautiful.

When she finally turns her head, catching me in the act, her green eyes are wide with the kind of fear that feels like a punch straight to the throat.

“This is a bad idea,” she says. “Maybe you should just drop me off.”

I quirk a brow. “Your ex is at your house, drunk after an all-day kegger at a frat, possibly high, and he’s refusing to leave until he sees you.”

She nods like it’s no big deal.

“I’m coming home with you, Red. That’s non-negotiable. ”

She huffs an exasperated sigh, and I can tell by her bouncing knee that she’s growing more and more anxious with every mile we drive. “You don’t understand. Parker’s a privileged, smarmy, self-entitled gerbil.”

“Sounds like a real catch,” I quip.

Ignoring me, she continues, “His parents are loaded. His dad’s a top defense attorney in Chicago. Parker’s pre-law.”

I’m not sure what his major or his parents’ financial status has to do with me escorting her home to make sure she’s safe, but whatever.

“And you’re… you .” She waves a hand in my direction.

Mock offended, I balk, clutching a hand to my chest. “Um, rude.”

“No, I didn’t—I mean, you’re a… famous athlete ,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper at that last part. “He will bleed you dry if you so much as lay a fingernail on him, whether he deserves it or not.”

“I played collegiate hockey for Princeton. This isn’t my first rodeo with entitled assholes.” I make a point of cracking my knuckles, flashing her a cocky smirk. “I’ve got this, Red.”

Ten minutes later, the cab pulls up to a curb outside a three-story townhouse that sits in a row of identical houses lining either side of the street.

I look out at the structure, every window illuminated through the night, and I pull my wallet out and hand the driver more than enough cash to cover the fare as well as a generous tip.

Glancing at Millie, I see that she looks hesitant, and before I can stop myself, I reach over and place my hand on top of hers, concern pricking the back of my neck when I realize she’s actually trembling. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me one bit, but with a heavy exhale, she unfastens her seatbelt and hops out of the car after me.

I follow as she leads the way onto the front porch, stopping to dig around in her purse before she pulls out a set of keys.

The moment she opens the front door, loud music and voices spill out into the night, and again, she pauses.

But it’s more than just hesitation this time; she freezes .

And her reaction only pricks my hackles because how is she this terrified?

Does she not think I can handle some drunk douchebag?

Or is it more than that? Which only begs the question…

what the fuck has this asshole done to her?

Touching her arm, I duck down enough so that her pretty eyes are forced to meet mine. I offer her a reassuring smile. “Follow my lead, okay?”

Her eyebrows draw together momentarily before she finally nods.

And then, stepping over the threshold, I reach back and take her hand in mine, weaving my fingers through hers.

Just like back at the club when she shook my hand, a spark rages up my arm at the feel of her soft skin, and I pause, glancing down at her.

Judging by the rose that tints her cheeks, I can tell she feels it too.

But I decide to play it cool, acting like it’s nothing, because it has to be nothing.

Even if it is something, it’s nothing. Fuck, I absolutely shouldn’t be here.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

Millie’s mouth falls open on a soft gasp, but she recovers quickly, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin a little higher. She nods to the staircase. “U-upstairs,” she stammers adorably, clearing her throat. “First door on the right.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. Fuck she’s cute . But, at that thought, dread settles in my gut. She’s also your teammate’s little sister, dickhead.

Ignoring my subconscious, I continue inside, holding Millie’s hand as we pass by a wide archway that opens to a sunken den. I don’t look inside, but from my periphery I can see at least a few people lounging about, and suddenly the music stops, followed by a muttered, “Who the fuck is that?”

“Hey, Mils!” a high-pitched voice chirps.

Millie pauses, causing me to stop, and I turn slowly, finally allowing myself to acknowledge the room.

A few people lounge over a big black sectional, and two guys are perched on beanbags, PlayStation controllers in hand, both wearing matching hoodies with Greek letters displayed across the front.

Two identical looking girls with pale blonde hair wearing matching light blue tracksuits glance at one another, and the brunette who just said hi to Millie side-eyes the guy sitting next to her.

He’s slouched low in his seat, wearing a backward ballcap and a pop-collared polo shirt underneath a t-shirt with the same Greek letters as his two buddies playing GTA .

And immediately I can tell by the death-like glower I’m on the receiving end of that Mr. Abercrombie and Fitch is Millie’s ex.

“Hey, guys,” Millie says, her voice tight.

She tries to release my hand, but I don’t let her; instead, I tug her close enough that I can wrap my arm around her, giving her hip a reassuring squeeze while trying not to lose my ever-loving shit at the feel of her curves. Chrissake, she’s fucking stacked. Breathe, Logan.

“Who’s your friend?” one of the twins asks, big, brown eyes looking me up and down like I’m a snack and she’s got the munchies.

“Oh, um—” Millie looks at me, uncertainty in her gaze. “This is… um… L-Logan.”

“Her boyfriend,” I say, lifting my chin in their direction while choosing not to make eye contact with any of them. I look down at Millie and lean in to whisper loud enough for them to overhear, “Let’s go to bed, babe.”

“Boyfriend?” someone hisses.

“Hey, I know you!” one of the guys says, pointing a finger at me, and I don’t know if it’s the finger or the tone, but I don’t like it .

“ You know me ?” Pointing at myself, I spear him with a threatening look, and he quickly retracts his finger. “You don’t fuckin’ know me, man.”

“He’s… I-I mean… y-you play hockey,” he stammers, suddenly a lot less sure of himself than he was a few seconds ago. “You’re Logan Cullen...?” It’s almost a question, and I have to stifle my own chuckle because what a little bitch.

“Come on, let’s go to my room,” Millie says, turning and heading for the stairs.

I offer the room one last unimpressed glance before following her.

“Millie!”

Millie stops, not turning around at the sound of her name.

But that’s okay, because I sure as shit do.

Swinging around, I stand tall, watching as Popped Collar hefts himself up from the sofa.

Placing his beer can onto the coffee table, he staggers a little on his approach, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, lids half-mast. Yeah, he’s fucked up. And he’s not getting any closer.

“You good, bro?” I hold a hand up, stopping him.

He looks me up and down, top lip curling up into a snide smirk. “I need to talk to Millie .”

I shake my head. “No, you don’t.”

He guffaws. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who am I?” I point at myself with an incredulous scoff, stepping up so we we’re toe to fucking toe. I’ve got at least five inches on the guy, and I make a point of looking down my nose at him, my smirk fading as I grit out, “Who the fuck are you ?”

When I feel a hand graze my back, it’s the only thing that stops me from launching myself at this joker. Millie’s right. He is a gerbil. A gerbil who needs a fist to the face.

“It’s okay,” Millie whispers, stepping around me.

“Mils,” Parker says softly, cocking his head to the side and looking at her like she hung the fucking moon.

My hands ball into fists at my sides .

“What do you want, Parker?” Millie asks, folding her arms across her chest defiantly.

“I want to talk to you,” he croaks, his gaze flitting to me and back to her as he continues. “I’m sorry, Angel. You know it meant nothing. She meant nothing. I was drunk. It was a stupid mistake, and I’m… I’m sorry.”

Millie shakes her head, but before she can say anything, Parker persists, stepping closer to her. “I told you, you’re my only girl. We’re meant to be. It will never happen again. You have to believe me.”

“Like I believed you the first time?” Millie scoffs, and when her gaze flits to me, I nod, flashing her a reassuring smile. Atta girl.

Parker’s cheeks turn even redder, his face morphing from semi-remorseful to straight-up pissed. Clearly, he doesn’t like being called out. “Millie, you can’t keep holding my past against me,” he says with obvious condescension.

“Your past ?” Millie snorts a laugh. “Parker, it was three weeks ago.”

Parker’s jaw ticks as his gaze once again meets mine.

And that’s when it happens. He grabs Millie’s arm with enough force that she flinches, pulling her off to the side, crowding her in a way that makes her instinctively cower.

And when she whispers that he’s hurting her, well, that’s when I step in.

I didn’t come back here with Millie just to fight. I’d intended on coming inside with her, telling the guy to fuck off, and maybe wait around for a while to make sure he didn’t return. But this guy deserves an ass kicking, and unlucky for him, kicking ass is my specialty.

“Millie, I told you, I?—”

Grabbing Parker by his popped collar, I yank him away from Millie with such force, he stumbles. I shove him hard against the wall, pinning him with my hand around his throat. “That’s enough talking for tonight, big guy.”

“Get your hands off me,” he grits out .

“Nah, I’m not gonna do that.” I shake my head, tightening my grip around his throat. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll give you a choice. Leave now, or I punch your fucking teeth down your throat.” Arching a brow, I offer him the kind of smile that completely contradicts my ultimatum.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion behind me, and without warning, I’m being punched in the jaw with a sloppy right hook that comes out of nowhere and manages to knock me sideways.

I turn to see Parker’s cronies crowding me.

One of them nurses his right hand—the culprit, obviously—and the other one looks from me, to his buddy, to Parker, and back to me, nervously lifting his fists in the air.

It’s almost laughable; three drunk college dickheads who clearly have no idea how to throw a proper punch, up against me, a professional hockey player who willingly chooses violence almost every time he skates out onto the ice.

I should walk away. But when I wipe my chin with the back of my hand and see a smear of blood from my stinging lip, I can’t help but grin because that’s all the encouragement I need.

Game on. I hope they have dental insurance.