Page 10

Chapter Seven

Logan

I slam the brewery's bathroom door harder than necessary and lean against it, my hands braced on either side of the sink.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

In the mirror, my reflection glares back.

My eyes are wild, looking every bit like the enforcer ready to drop gloves in the center of the ice. Except instead of squaring off with some asshole from Boston, I'm fighting against... against…

Against what? What the hell am I even fighting anymore?

Five minutes ago, I was about to kiss Emma. Actually kiss her. In front of half of Iron Ridge, with her laughing at some ridiculous pet parade, clutching that stupid wolf I won her like it was made of fucking gold.

The way she looked up at me when I touched her face...

Christ. Those warm brown eyes, the way her lips parted just slightly, like she was already imagining how I'd taste. I could have kissed her right there, in front of everyone, and she wouldn't have stopped me.

I know she wouldn't have stopped me.

She wants it. Wants me .

And what do I do?

Run. Like a goddamn coward.

" Fuck! "

I splash cold water on my face, but it doesn't help. Nothing's going to help except maybe a lobotomy or getting as far away from Emma Carter as possible.

The door opens with a creak that sounds like a death knell. Blake walks in, and from the look on his face, he's been looking for me.

"There you are." He leans against the wall, arms crossed, studying me with those calculating captain eyes. "I saw you storming across the parade. Want to tell me why you look like someone just told you the seasons just been canceled?"

"I'm fine," I grunt, avoiding his gaze.

"Yeah. Sure. And I'm the fucking Easter Bunny." Blake steps closer. "This about Emma?"

My hands grip the edge of the sink so hard I'm surprised it doesn't crack. "Drop it, Blake."

"Not happening." His voice goes serious, the tone he uses when he's about to give one of his captain speeches before a big game. "You've been circling that woman like a predator for weeks. Everyone's talking about you two..."

"It's just the community program—"

"Bullshit." Blake cuts me off. "I've never seen you give a damn about community outreach before. Hell, you usually dodge all that PR stuff like it's the plague."

He's right, and we both know it.

I remember when Blake asked me to help with the youth program last season. Said the kids would love meeting another player. I mumbled some bullshit about needing recovery time, then spent the weekend binge-watching Netflix in my apartment alone.

I turn to face him, jaw clenched.

"I'm just trying to help her out."

Blake snorts. "Right. And Connor joined the team for the love of ice maintenance."

I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his observations when he moves closer, lowering his voice.

"Look, I get it. After my dad left, I thought I was better off alone too. Safer. Less complicated." Blake's expression softens slightly. "But sometimes the thing you're running from is exactly what you need the most."

"You don't know what you're talking about," I mutter.

"Don't I?" Blake raises an eyebrow. "You think I didn't see the way you looked at her during that promo shoot? You're gone for her, Logan. The only question is what you're going to do about it."

The bathroom door swings open again, and Connor strolls in, taking one look at our faces.

"Whoa. Did someone die?"

I scrub a hand over my face and groan. "Fucking oath."

Connor grins across the room. "Jeez. You both look like Coach just announced mandatory morning skates for the rest of eternity."

Blake shoots him a warning look, but Connor's already locked onto me.

"This is about Emma, isn't it?" Connor grins, clearly enjoying this. "Dude, I saw you guys earlier! Man, the way you two looked during that ring toss game... I thought you were going to throw her over your shoulder and carry her off like some caveman."

"Shut up, Walsh."

"I'm just saying, the sexual tension was so thick I could have cut it with my skate blade." Connor leans against the door frame, blocking my exit. "So what's the problem? You clearly want her, she's clearly into you..."

"The problem," I snap, "is that it's fucking complicated."

"How?" Blake and Connor chime in like synchronized swimming rejects, their voices colliding in the air between us.

I run my hands through my hair, frustration boiling over.

"Because I don't do this! I don't do... feelings. Relationships. Love." I throw my fists up in the air. "Whatever the hell this is supposed to be."

"Why not?" Blake pushes.

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

What do I tell him?

Because I'm scared? Because the last person I loved died while I was on a bus in a different country, and I couldn't even make it to her funeral? Because letting someone matter that much means giving them the power to destroy you completely?

I made my mind up that day.

Love is for the weak. I'm better off alone.

At least, that's how I felt until Emma came along. Until she stormed into my life with her books and cinnamon-scented sweaters, looking at me like I was more than just the guy who broke faces on the ice. Like maybe I was worth knowing beyond the enforcer everyone else saw.

"Just... drop it. Both of you."

I try to push past Connor, but he doesn't budge.

"You know what your problem is?" Connor says, far too cheerful for someone about to get his ass kicked. "You think too much. Emma makes you coffee, you build her shelves. She smiles at you, you get all broody and protective. It's not that complicated."

"It is when you have no idea what you're doing," I mutter.

Blake steps forward. "None of us knew what we were doing. You think I had a manual for dealing with Sophia? Or that Connor figured out Lucy overnight?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because..." I trail off, searching for the words. "Because you're not me."

The silence that follows is heavy. Too heavy.

Connor finally speaks, his tone lighter but still serious. "Look, man. I've seen you take on guys twice your size without blinking. But one tiny coffee shop owner has you running scared?"

"She's not tiny," I say automatically, then realize how that sounds when they both smirk.

"Right," Blake drawls. "So what is it then? What's got Iron Ridge's scariest defenseman hiding in a bathroom?"

I lean back against the wall, the fight going out of me. "What if I fuck it up? What if I'm not... enough?"

It comes out quieter than I mean it to, but they both hear it despite the noise of the carnival still pounding through the walls.

Connor's expression softens. "Enough for what?"

"For her. For what she deserves." I stare at the floor. "Emma's... she's got this light. This energy. She makes people feel welcome, makes them want to be better. And I'm just..."

"What? A professional athlete? A guy with a big heart that's been alone for too long he's ready to treasure any woman who takes the time to really get to know him?" Blake's voice carries a hint of amusement. "Yeah, real loser territory there."

"I'm serious."

"So are we." Connor crosses his arms. "You want to know what I see? I see a guy who shows up. Who takes care of people without being asked. Who makes Emma smile in a way I've never seen before. Lucy won't shut up about you two, man."

My chest tightens at his words.

Blake nods. "She's different when you're around. Brighter. More confident."

"And you're different too," Connor adds. "Less of a grumpy bastard. Well, marginally less."

Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my lips. "Fuck off."

"There he is," Connor grins and pokes me in the ribs. "Look, all I'm saying is maybe stop overthinking it. Go out there, make sure she's okay. Just see what happens."

Blake pushes off the wall. "Or don't. Keep running. See how that works out for you."

They both head for the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sounds of the festival filtering through the thin walls.

Make sure she's okay.

Christ. What if she's been standing there alone, wondering why I ditched her like some teenage asshole?

I splash more cold water on my face, but it doesn't help with the heat coursing through my veins. The memory of how she felt when I guided her hand at the ring toss, how she fit perfectly against my chest...

Get it together, dipshit. She needs you out there.

When I finally leave the bathroom, the afternoon sun feels too bright, the noise of the festival too loud.

I scan the crowd, searching for auburn hair and that smile that does things to my chest.

I find her at her booth, but she's not alone.

That car dealer from the town over is leaning way too close to Emma as she tries to pack up her samples. Her body language is all wrong, shoulders tense, smile forced.

The protective instinct that lives in my bones flares to life.

I'm moving before I fully process it, cutting through the crowd with purpose. The sleazy guy has got his hand on the table now, blocking Emma's space as he talks, voice too loud and way too cocky.

"Come on, sweetheart. Just one drink. I promise I'm more interesting than hockey players."

Emma takes a step back, clutching her sample tray like a shield. "I really need to finish packing up—"

"The booth can wait." He moves closer, and that's when I see red.

I don't run this time. I don't hesitate.

My hand lands heavy on his shoulder, my fingers digging in hard enough to make him audibly whimper like the piece of shit he is.

He spins around, eyes widening when he sees who's behind him.

"I believe the lady said she's busy." My voice comes out low, dangerous. The same tone I use on the ice right before dropping gloves.

The pathetic guy straightens, trying to look tough with his pale face and patchy stubble. "We were just talking."

"Yeah, well. The conversation's over." I step between him and Emma, my body forming a wall he'd have to go through to get to her.

For a second, he looks like he might try something stupid.