Chapter Twenty-One

Logan

T he puck slams into the boards where my head would have been if I hadn't ducked. Connor skates by, stick raised in mock apology.

"Wake up, Kane! Your girlfriend's not here to save you!"

I glare, but fuck… He's right. My head's not in practice today.

Coach blows his whistle, signaling a line change. I glide to the bench, legs burning from the quick shifts we've been running all morning. The arena is empty except for the team, the sounds of blades cutting ice and pucks slapping against sticks echoing in the vast space.

"You good?" Blake asks quietly as I take a seat beside him.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The trade rumors have been swirling all week. Seattle. Boston. Tampa. Every hockey insider with a Twitter account seems to have a source saying the Icehawks are looking to move an aging defenseman.

And at thirty-two, with my contract up after this season, I'm the obvious candidate.

"Bullshit," Blake says, reading my mind the way only a captain who's played alongside you for years can. "Listen, bro. Mike's not that stupid."

I take a swig from my water bottle. "Maybe. Maybe not."

The truth is, I should be more worried than I am. A trade means uprooting my life. New team. New city. New system. Starting over when I thought I'd retire an Icehawk.

But all I can think about is Emma. About what a trade would mean for us. About the look on her face if, or when , I have to tell her I'm leaving Iron Ridge.

"Is that big head in the game, Kane?" Coach Brody barks from across the ice. "You're up."

I stand, running through my mental checklist before stepping back onto the ice. Stick grip. Edge check. Helmet strap.

For sixteen years, hockey has been my entire identity. Logan Kane, the enforcer. The Iron Wall. The guy who will take any hit, throw any punch, to protect his teammates.

I take position for the drill, realizing that for the first time in my life, hockey might not be enough anymore. Not when Emma's smile feels more like home than any arena ever has.

After practice, I linger in the locker room, taking my time with the shower, with taping my sore wrist, with packing my gear. Most of the guys have cleared out, heading home to girlfriends or whatever else occupies their lives off the ice.

"You're still here?" Coach Brody appears in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "Figured you'd be off helping your girlfriend with that stall she's been going on about to Natalie and Sophia all week."

I grunt, shoving my shoulder pads into my bag. "She's got it handled."

Coach studies me for a long moment. "Something on your mind, Kane?"

"You tell me, Coach," I say, straightening to my full height. "Big Mike been talking to you about the trade?"

Coach's expression doesn't change, but there's a slight tensing around his eyes. "So you've heard."

"Hard not to when everyone's whispering about it." I zip my bag with more force than necessary, breaking the zipper and chucking it on the floor. "Just wondering when someone was going to talk to me about it."

Coach sighs, stepping further into the locker room. "Look, Logan, nothing's decided yet. It's just talks."

"Just talks," I repeat flatly. "The kind of talks that end with me packing up my life and moving across the country?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." He sounds tired. It's only preseason and he's tired. "You've been in this league long enough to know how it works. It's business."

"Yeah, I know. 'Nothing personal.'" I sling my bag over my shoulder. "Except it's starting to feel pretty fucking personal from where I'm standing."

Coach doesn't flinch at my tone. After almost a decade together, he's seen me at my worst. "Look, I can't tell you what you want to hear. Just... keep an open mind. Nothing's done until it's done, okay?"

I nod once, sharply. "Is that all, Coach?"

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, studying me closer. "What's she like? Your coffee girl?"

The question catches me off guard.

Coach Brody isn't exactly known for his interest in players' personal lives. Not unless it affects their performance on the ice.

"Emma? She's..." I search for words that won't make me sound like a lovesick teenager. "She's good. Smart. Works harder than anyone I know."

Coach's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Must be something special to have you looking like you're about to put your fist through a wall at the thought of leaving."

I don't confirm or deny it. Don't need to. He can read it on my face plain as day.

"Do you remember when Team USA came calling for me?" he continues, his voice low. "Head coaching position for the Olympics. Best players in the world, representing our country on the biggest stage. The kind of honor most coaches would kill for."

I lean against my locker, suddenly interested. Coach doesn't usually open up like this.

I raise my eyebrows. "Yeah. I remember."

Coach's eyes go distant for a moment. "I nearly took it, you know. Had the contract in my inbox, ready to sign. Greatest coaching opportunity of my career."

"But you stayed."

"I met Natalie." He shrugs, like it's that simple. "Suddenly, the idea of leaving Iron Ridge didn't seem so appealing."

He nods, looking around the locker room.

"This team, this town... it gets under your skin. I realized I'd rather build something lasting here than chase some flashy title elsewhere."

I understand what he's saying without him spelling it out. He's talking about more than just hockey.

"Sometimes the right choice isn't the one that looks best on paper," Coach says. "Sometimes it's about where you fit, where you can build something real."

The weight of his words settles between us. I think about Emma, about her café, about the life I've started imagining with her. The kind of life I never thought I wanted.

I absorb this, turning it over in my mind. "You think you made the right call?"

"Every damn day." He claps me on the shoulder as he turns to leave. "Just something to think about, Kane."

He leaves and I'm halfway to my truck when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Emma's name lights up the screen, and something in my chest loosens at the sight.

Quick! I need your help. If you were a hot chocolate topping, what would you be?

I can't help the smile that tugs at my mouth. Only Emma would send a message like this at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

Marshmallows , I text back. The big ones we had at the cabin.

Her response is immediate: Cocky much? I was thinking you would be cinnamon. Warm, spicy, and surprisingly sweet underneath it all.

You calling me sweet, Coffee Witch?

Only when you're not looking. How was practice?

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. I should tell her about the trade talks. About all the teams interested in me. About how everything might change after the ever approaching trade deadline before the season kicks off.

Instead, I type: Fine. Heading your way now. Need anything?

Just you.

Two simple words that knock the air right out of my lungs.

I slide into my truck, tossing my gear in the back seat. The drive to Chapter & Grind takes exactly seven minutes from the arena. I know because I've timed it, counting the seconds until I can see her again like some pathetic teenager.

When did I become this guy? This soft, needy version of myself that I barely recognize?

The answer is simple: the moment Emma Carter looked at me like I was more than just the sum of my hits and fights. Like I mattered beyond what I could do on the ice.

The radio station fills my truck with noise as I pull out of the parking lot. Some local DJ chattering about the upcoming Arena Experience Day, about the Icehawks' community outreach program, about how Chapter & Grind is the frontrunner to win the arena café space.

Pride swells in my chest.

Emma's worked so hard for this. Poured everything into making her café something special, something that matters to the town.

And now she might get to expand, to grow her dream into something bigger.

While I might be forced to leave it all behind.

The irony isn't lost on me.

Just when Emma's setting down deeper roots in Iron Ridge hockey—the only constant in my life—that's exactly what might tear me away from her.

I shut off the radio, preferring silence to the reminder of what's at stake.

Chapter & Grind is busy when I arrive, the afternoon rush in full swing.

Through the window, I can see Emma behind the counter, moving with the kind of graceful efficiency that comes from doing something you love for years.

Her auburn hair is piled on top of her head in that messy knot she favors when she's been working all day. There's a smudge of what looks like chocolate on her cheek, and she's gesturing animatedly as she explains something to a customer.

She's wearing the green sweater. Icehawk green. My favorite. It's the one that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes and hugs her sexy body in a way that makes it hard to think straight.

She's beautiful.

And I might be leaving her.

The thought hits me like a blindside check, leaving me winded and unsteady.

I stand outside for a long moment, just watching her in her element.

The corners of her mouth turn upward as she extends her arm, passing a mug to a customer. Her fingers dance across the espresso machine again, twisting the knob to release a hiss of steam into the milk pitcher, then sliding to the lever where she pulls shots.

When the waiting customer mumbles something barely audible over the whir of the grinder, her shoulders shake slightly and a soft, melodic chuckle escapes her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

This is her world. Her dream.

Built from nothing but determination and a love for coffee and books that I'll never fully understand but have come to admire more than I can say.

And for the first time in my life, I'm deeply, painfully aware that someone else's dream matters to me as much as my own.

Hockey isn't everything.

It's just what I did until I found this… my real purpose in life.

I push through the door, the bell chiming overhead. Emma looks up, and the smile that breaks across her face when she sees me is like sunshine after a month of gray skies.

"Logan!" She waves, gesturing me toward the counter. "Perfect timing. I need a brave soul to taste-test my new experimental hot chocolate for the kids."

I make my way to her, weaving through the crowded café.

"Brave, huh? Should I be worried?"

"Only if you hate the combination of chocolate, milk, and a secret ingredient that might change your life."

She slides a mug across the counter to me, eyes twinkling with mischief. I take a sip, and the rich, complex flavor explodes on my tongue.

"Jesus, Emma. This is incredible."

"Yeah?" Her face lights up with that particular brand of joy she gets when she's created something new. "I'm thinking of making this one for the kids tomorrow."

"It's perfect," I say, taking another sip. "This stuff could become addictive."

"That's the plan," she winks. "Get all those hockey fans hooked so they keep coming back for more."

I watch her move behind the counter, prepping another drink for a waiting customer.

What would happen to her if I left? Would she come with me? Would I even ask her to?

The questions circle in my head like vultures, feeding on the quiet dread that's been building since the first whispers of "trade" reached my ears.

"You okay?" Emma asks, suddenly right in front of me, brow furrowed with concern. "You seem... far away."

I force a smile. "Just tired from practice. Coach was brutal today."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but the café is too busy for her to press the issue. "Well, I'm almost done here. Stick around and maybe we get take out to finish off the last of those bookmarks?"

"Sounds perfect," I say, meaning it.

I find a spot in the corner, nursing my hot chocolate and watching Emma work. The café gradually empties as closing time approaches, until it's just the two of us, Emma wiping down counters while I stack chairs on tables.

Yeah. Maybe there is life after hockey after all.