Page 11

Logan

" W hy the fuck is Joaquin telling everyone that you decked a photographer last night?" Jordan asks, dropping onto the bench beside me.

I glance over at him, shrugging silently.

"Jesus Christ, Logan." He grabs my hand, examining my knuckles. "You did hit a photographer last night, didn't you?"

"Maybe." I absolutely hit a photographer last night. The same prick who took those photos of Peyton and made her cry showed up at the bar as Joaquin and I were getting ready to leave. He shoved his fucking camera in my face, asking if I knew Peyton was fucking Austin Hawkes.

I warned him to back off. He wouldn't listen. He just kept encroaching, shoving that damn camera in my face, bumping into me. So I decked him.

Next time, he'll listen.

Oh, he'll probably try to sue me for assault. Whatever. The police came out and took his statement. They took mine too. He was trespassing. He was in my personal space harassing me. And he wouldn't back the fuck off. Everyone agreed that he pushed me first, so I didn't go to jail.

"Coach is going to murder you when he finds out."

"Who said he's going to find out?" I pull my hand away.

"Motherfucker, you took Joaquin with you." Jordan glowers at me. "The whole goddamn arena is going to know before the end of the day. Believe me, Coach is going to find out. And he's already pissed at you because your ugly mug is all over the news right now."

"He knew what he was getting when he signed me," I mutter. "He signed me anyway. Besides, I didn't take Joaquin anywhere. The fucking cameraman showed up when we were leaving the bar."

Jordan laughs abruptly, shaking his head. "I'm guessing he was the prick who took photos of your girl the other day?"

I scowl at him.

"Thought so."

"Does she know?"

"Hell no." She went back to her place after the game last night to hang out with her roommate. And I haven't seen her yet this morning. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to tell her when I do see her.

I don't regret hitting the motherfucker. He had it coming for making her cry. She isn't a cheater. She damn sure isn't like her father. And I'll be damned if I stand around and let anyone say she is.

Peyton is a fucking goddess. No one gets to treat her like shit unless they want to answer to me. Especially since I'm the one who got her into this. She shouldn't have to deal with this bullshit because of me.

"One of these days, you're going to bite off more than you can chew," Jordan says, yanking his practice jersey on over his head. "I just hope I'm around to…" He trails off when the door slams open and Peyton storms in, her skirt swishing around her legs. "Well, shit." He laughs quietly. "Looks like that day might be today."

"You," Peyton growls, those forest green eyes narrowing on me. "Are in so much trouble."

"Good morning to you too, baby."

"Do not call me that right now, Logan."

Jordan slaps me on the back. "That's my cue to get the fuck out of here. RIP, motherfucker."

I shoot him a dirty look.

He loops his skates over his shoulder and then saunters toward the door, leaving plenty of space between the two of them, like he's scared she might fucking bite him if he gets too close. Hell, the way she's looking right now, she actually might. She is pissed.

She waits until the door closes behind him and then stomps toward me, her tits bouncing with every step. It's a hell of a time for my cock to be this hard…and yet…here I sit. Hard as a goddamn rock.

"You got in a fight last night?" she says once she's standing in front of me, her hands on her hips. Breathing fire.

"It wasn't much of a fight, angel. He wouldn't get out of my face. I hit him. End of story."

Wrong thing to say, apparently. Her eyes narrow further.

"Who was he?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Who was he, Logan?"

"A photographer."

"A photographer. You mean the one who took those pictures of me the other day, don't you?"

"Is there an answer here that isn't going to piss you off?" I ask, eyeing her warily. "Because the truth isn't going to accomplish that, baby."

"Jesus, Logan," she groans, tilting her head back. She's quiet for a moment. I think she's counting. "Do you plan to hit every photographer who hurts my feelings?"

"Depends."

She meets my gaze, a question in her eye.

"If they make you cry? Yeah, I might hit every single fucking one of them. If they print bullshit comparing you to your father? Yeah, might hit them then, too. If they fucking lie about you? Yeah, might hit them then, too." I haul myself to my feet, getting up in her personal space. "I'm not apologizing for protecting you, Peyton. If that's what you expect, it's not fucking happening."

"You have a career you need to worry about protecting," she growls, spinning on her heel. "Have you ever thought about doing that instead of trying to be the freaking hero all the time?"

I grab her before she can storm for the door, hauling her up against my chest. I spin, pressing her up against the wall. "Fuck my career," I snarl, sinking my teeth into her throat. Christ, she drives me up the goddamn wall. "Fuck everything, Peyton. I'll tear it all down if it means keeping you."

"Maybe I don't want to be kept if it means watching you blow your life up," she snaps, trying to buck me off her.

Yeah, to hell with that. I'm not letting her go. Not now. Not ever.

"You drive me fucking crazy," I growl, biting her again.

"Yeah, well, I hate you," she snaps right back at me.

"Oh, yeah?" I rip her skirt up her legs, shoving my hand beneath it. "Is that why you're so fucking wet right now? Because you hate me so goddamn much?"

"Go to hell."

"I'm already there, baby. Or haven't you been paying attention?" I shove my hand inside her panties, kicking her legs apart. "Every minute I'm not inside you is my own personal hell."

She pushes back against me, groaning.

I bury my face in her throat, dragging my boxers down with my free hand to release my aching cock. The other is hard at work between her legs, my thumb against her clit as I press two fingers inside of her, fucking her with them.

"This right here? This is heaven, Peyton," I rasp against her ear. "This greedy little cunt and your smart-ass mouth is my personal goddamn paradise."

"Shut up," she mutters.

"Fucking make me."

She turns on me with a growl, shoving me back against the wall this time. Something feral lights her eyes, lust stamped across every line of her perfect face as she immediately drops to her knees, wrapping one hand around my shaft.

"Fuck!" I roar, slamming my hand back against the wall as she plunges down on me, taking me so far she chokes.

"That's the sound I like to hear, Logan," she says, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. "You, desperate and groaning."

"Put your mouth back on my cock, angel. Now," I snarl.

"Go to hell." She jerks me off in that perfect hand, her eyes locked on my face. "You don't get to tell me what to do. I decide when to suck your cock. I decide if I want to ride it."

"Keep being a mouthy little brat," I growl. "I'll bend you over the fucking bench and spank your gorgeous ass while you beg me to let you ride it."

"You wish."

"Yeah, I do," I say. "Every minute of the day, Peyton. What part of that aren't you getting? You're the only goddamn thing I think about."

She plunges down on me again, and I realize her game. She's fighting like hell to stay mad, and every time I say something sweet, she wavers. She forgets why she's so pissed at me. And she's desperate to stay mad. Because so long as she's mad, she doesn't have to admit that she fucking loves me, too. She doesn't have to admit that she's so worried about me ruining my career because she's spent her whole damn life being told that she'll never deserve anything except the shit people have flung at her since before she was born. And she doesn't have to admit that she's scared.

Peyton doesn't do scared. She does pissed. She does sassy. She does ball-busting and mouthy. But scared? Nothing makes her skin crawl more than fear. And nothing makes her more afraid than the thought of losing me.

She plunges down on me again and then again, taking me as far as she can before she chokes and has to back off.

"Is that all you've got, baby?" I ask, smirking down at her. Giving her exactly what she needs because of fucking course I do. I'm hers in every way. My heart beats for her. It has since the minute I met her…and I know all the way to my bones that it always will. She owns me, body and soul.

Her eyes narrow, her grip tightening. She sucks me into her mouth again, her tongue sliding down my shaft.

My eyes threaten to roll back in my head. I grunt quietly; my eyes locked on her face. She's a goddess on her knees as she works me over, tormenting me with that perfect fucking mouth. And I let her. I egg her on, taunting her until I can't take it anymore.

She's panting when I pluck her up from the floor, shoving her up against the wall. My lips come down on hers, branding my claim against her perfect mouth.

"Get your legs around my waist," I growl. "Now."

She pulls my hair in response.

I snarl, slamming myself inside her. And Christ, it's like coming home. She's tight, wet perfection around my cock, gripping me like she's never going to let go.

"Do you hate me now, Peyton?" I ask, burying my face in her throat to kiss and bite everywhere I can reach.

"No. I mean yes."

"Fucking liar." I pound into her, fucking her so hard I can't breathe. But neither can she. All she can do is claw those little nails down my back and take it. "You're so goddamn in love with me that it terrifies you."

"Yeah? And you think you aren't, Logan?" She pulls my hair again, yanking my head to the side to kiss me. "You're fucking obsessed with me."

She has no idea just how obsessed I am. Hitting a photographer is just scratching the surface of the shit I'd do for her. But I don't tell her that because that isn't what she needs to hear right now. Right now, she needs to feel like she has a little bit of control. She needs me to be bossy and rude and play her game.

Shit, maybe that's what I need too. Because I don't know how the fuck else I'm supposed to get through to her and make her realize that I'm not going anywhere. No matter how hard she fights, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here, hitting photographers and fighting her infuriating little ass until the cows come home.

"Shut the fuck up and come on my cock like a good girl, Peyton," I snarl, biting her lip. "Before I decide not to let you come at all."

"Shut up and make me."

Challenge accepted.

I slip my hand between our bodies, pounding into her while I play with her hard little clit. She gasps, her head falling back against the wall.

"I…I…"

"Do it. Now," I order, trying to hold off my own orgasm as her inner muscle clench and flutter all up and down my shaft.

She whimpers my name, her eyes rolling back.

I growl, yanking her down on me as she shatters, sending me hurtling over the edge with her. Her pussy milks the cum from my balls, draining every drop inside her perfect body.

My goddamn knees give out.

I spin, collapsing down the wall with her in my arms.

"Logan," she whispers, pressing her face to my throat. Shaking.

I hold her tightly, breathing her in.

"Logan, I…" She tips her head back, staring up at me. The truth is right there in her eyes, blazing like twin stars. "I lo–"

The locker room door opens.

"Oh, shit," Diego says.

I yank Peyton's skirt down over her ass, turning a dark glower on my teammate.

"Get the fuck out, Diego."

He backs out slowly, his hands in the air and a smirk on his face. But the damage is already done. As soon as the door closes behind him, Peyton slides from my lap, adjusting her skirt.

Fucking hell.

"Peyton, baby."

She avoids my gaze.

"Dammit, Peyton," I growl, hauling myself to my feet. "Talk to me."

"And say what?" She spins to face me. "What do you want me to say, Logan? That I'm in love with you? Fine, done. I'm in love with you! I've been in love with you from the beginning!"

"Fuck," I growl, reaching for her. It's about goddamn time she finally admitted it.

"But I don't need a hero," she cries, darting out of my reach. "And it's not okay that you're willing to destroy everything you've worked for just to protect me when I never asked for that."

"It's my job to protect you."

"No. It's your job to love me," she says sadly. "And I think Lauren would tell you the same thing if you asked her, but you won't. Because you're so hellbent on beating yourself up that you do the same thing to her, too."

"What does that mean?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

"It means…" She sighs, scraping her hair back into a quick bun. "It means that I finally figured you out. You didn't hit that photographer because you were trying to protect me, Logan. You hit him because you felt guilty."

"Bullshit," I growl.

"You know it's true," she says quietly. "It's what you've been doing with Lauren for years. You punish yourself, and hope it'll make her life better. But it doesn't work that way. All you're doing is destroying yourself and teaching her that she isn't strong enough to fight her own battles. The last thing she needs is to believe that she's a coward who can't face whatever life throws at her." She turns for the door, sighing. "I don't need that, either. The last thing I need is for the man I love to throw himself in front of me every single time my past comes up. I can't be the reason you beat yourself up and get yourself in trouble. I won't be. That reputation has haunted me long enough, Logan. If you're going to love me, then love me. Be my partner. But don't ask me to let you be a martyr. Don't give my past and my father that much power over our future when you're the one who convinced me that I was ready to stop running."

She sails through the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the locker room.

"Fuck!" I growl, slamming my hand down against the wall.

"Lariat." I drop into the booth beside Emilia later that night, shooting her a grin. "Haven't seen you around the locker room lately."

We're at a bar downtown, hanging out before we have to fly out for another game in the morning. Peyton came with us, but she's barely speaking to me. She's still pissed. Actually, that isn't true. She's hurt.

It's my own damn fault. I've spent all day thinking about what she said. She wasn't wrong. About any of it. I do punish myself because I feel guilty. I have royally fucked things up. And I don't have the first clue how to start fixing them now. But I've gotta do it. For her sake, for Lauren's sake…and for mine. Because I can't spend the rest of my goddamn career throwing myself on the sword every time motherfuckers like Montaque or that photographer come around.

If that shit is going to cost me Peyton, I have to find a different way. She told me she loves me today. I know how fucking scared she was to say it, but she said it anyway. She actually stood there and told me exactly how she feels, despite her fears, despite her insecurities, despite all of it. I've never been prouder than I was today. And I've never felt like a bigger asshole, either.

I won't be the reason she feels like she isn't enough. I refuse to let her live with guilt, thinking she's fucking up my life every time I do something wrong because I can't let go of my guilt. So if fixing my shit is what I have to do to prove to her that I can give her the future she sees with me, I'll find a way to do it.

And I'm guessing the tipsy little shrink sitting beside me can help me sort my shit out.

"And I haven't seen you in my office," Emilia retorts, eyeing me over the rim of her wineglass. "But I know you've been getting my emails. You've responded to them."

"Yeah, and I responded no." I smirk at her, fucking with her because I can't resist. She's wild when she's wound up. "That means I'm not coming, Doc."

Peyton's lips pull down into a frown, disappointment flowing through her expression. Fuck. I never can quit when I'm ahead, can I?

"Not a doctor. But fine, then I guess I'll be seeing you in the locker room again soon." Emilia eyes me levelly, refusing to give up that easily. She's a dog with a bone. I'm pretty sure she sends me seven email invitations a day to meet with her. It has to be a program auto-sending them because there's no goddamn way she has that kind of time.

"Jesus Christ," Jordan growls from the opposite side of the table, scowling at me. "If she shows up in the locker room while we're changing again, I'm kicking your ass. We still haven't recovered from last time she came in, insults blazing."

"It will be his fault," Emilia agrees sweetly.

Peyton snorts…which I assume is her agreeing.

"You are a little shit-stirrer, aren't you?" I ask Emilia, amused.

"Takes real to recognize real, Moreno."

Archer laughs abruptly from my other side. "She has you pegged to a fucking T, man."

"Fine. I'll consider dropping by your office." I hold up a finger. "But only to say hey. Not to discuss shit."

"Fine. Then I'll consider not barging into the locker room again," Emilia says sweetly.

Peyton wraps her arms around herself, leaning her head back against the booth. I try to catch her eye to ask if she's okay, but she turns away from me, staring out at the bar. Goddammit.

Conversation flows around me while I stare at her, willing her to look at me. She stubbornly refuses, icing me out like she has all damn day. I don't like it much. Frankly, I fucking hate it.

I used to think the worst thing in the world would be disappointing Lauren. Turns out, it's disappointing the pretty little goddess sitting across from me. That shit stings in ways I didn't even know was possible.

"We should all head out," Archer says, setting his beer on the table. "Flight leaves early in the morning."

"Don't remind me," I growl, glancing across the table at Peyton again. I'm not ready to fly out in the morning when I'm not entirely convinced she'll be getting on that plane with me. "You ready to go, angel?"

"Stop calling me that, Logan."

"Sure." I shrug. "Just as soon as you stop looking like one, baby."

She rolls her eyes, sliding out of the booth. "It was nice to meet everyone. See you later." She shoots a death glare in my direction before stomping toward the door.

"Shit," I mumble, hopping up as laughter ripples around the table.

"Stop antagonizing her, man," Micah says. "You're only making it worse for yourself."

"Fucking clearly," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I take off after her.

I catch up to her just outside the door, spinning her around to face me. The watery sheen in her eyes sends my heart slamming against my ribcage.

"Baby," I groan.

"Let me go," she growls, trying to yank free.

"Never." I scoop her up in my arms.

She mutters under her breath, probably cursing me to hell and back, as I stomp toward the parking deck. I don't stop moving until we're at the truck and she's inside, her legs dangling out as I crowd her.

"I'm an asshole," I say quietly, brushing away the tears on her cheeks.

"The problem is that you actually believe that." She smiles sadly. "You're the best man I've ever met, Logan. When are you going to let yourself believe it?"

I groan quietly, thrusting my hand into her hair to tip her head back. My mouth comes down on hers, a desperate edge to the kiss. She moans, kissing me back the same way. We're fire and ice, steaming everywhere we touch.

"I love you," I breathe against her lips.

"I know." She presses her face up against my throat, sighing sweetly. "I love you too."

"But you're still pissed."

"You hit a photographer. I may not know much about hockey, but I'm not stupid," she mutters against my skin. "I know how bad that could be for you."

"I'm going to talk to Emilia."

"Yeah, about the weather or whatever ridiculous thing that pops into your head."

"No." I tip her head back, forcing her to meet my gaze. "I'm going to talk to her about my shit, angel." I sigh. "You were right today. I do lash out because I feel fucking guilty. Everything has been handed to me my entire goddamn life. And because it's handed to me, people like you and Lauren end up being collateral damage. It's fucked up."

"That doesn't make it your fault, Logan. You're responsible for how you treat us, not for how the rest of the world does. You can't police other people."

"I know," I sigh. "Doesn't mean I fucking like it."

"Of course you don't." She smiles up at me. "That's who you are. You want to fight everyone's battles and protect everyone, and you feel responsible when you can't because you're one of the good ones. But that isn't what I need from you. I just need you to love me despite what they say. And I need you to keep reminding me that I can handle whatever they say."

"You can," I growl. "Christ, baby. Do you have any idea how goddamn strong you are?"

"I'm…finally figuring that out, actually."

"Good."

"It's because of you, you know," she murmurs. "Because you push and you push and you push and you never stop pushing."

"Why the fuck would I stop if it means letting you run? Fuck that." I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, bouncing my forehead gently against hers. "You were stuck with me the second you let me inside that perfect little body the first time."

"Logan," she groans.

"I mean it, Peyton. I knew then that I was home."

"Speaking of…" She waggles her brows at me. "Want to go home and have make up sex?"

"Hell yes," I growl before shaking my head. "But I can't. There's something I need to do first."

She meets my gaze, searching. "Lauren," she whispers after a moment.

"Yeah. Fuck." I expel a breath. I've put it off for too long already. She and I need to talk.

"Do you want me to go with you?"

Christ, I love her. In ways I can't even define and for a million little reasons just like that. She gets me in ways no one ever has, and she has my back, no matter what. Even what it means telling me what I don't want to hear, she's behind me the whole way. If I'm the best man she's ever met, it's because she's turned me into him.

"As much as I'd love that, I think this is something I need to do myself, baby," I murmur regretfully, brushing my lips across hers. "But will you stay with me tonight? I need you in my bed."

"I need to be in your bed."

"Fuck," I groan, kissing her again. "Let's go before I decide to put this off again."