Page 10

CHAPTER 8

LOGAN

I was sitting in the locker room, staring at my phone. It was almost time to go out on the ice, but I’d texted Lincoln’s PI an hour ago, and I was feeling fucking impatient. My phone buzzed, but the text I’d just received wasn’t from who I wanted.

Asher: Why do hockey players have such bad fashion?

I grinned, thinking of what I’d worn today for my arena entrance. Usually the front office made us wear suits, but they’d relaxed the rules for the playoffs, thinking it would bring more publicity to the team if we showed our personalities more.

My outfits happened to be fan favorites…because I was a fucking baller like that.

Me: Take that back.

Asher: I’m just saying, I felt like you were trying to audition for a boy band.

That could have been a fair characterization of what I’d worn today…but I was pretty sure “boy band” was back in style. Or at least that was what my stylist had told me when she’d brought me the outfit.

Me: That jean vest I wore today was iconic.

Asher: I believe the lady on TV called it “tragic.”

Me: I thought you had better taste than this.

Asher: Socks, you looked like the lost member of NSYNC. All you needed was frosted tips.

Me: I’ll have you know that frosted tips are making a comeback. I’ll also have you know that I didn’t hear any complaints from the fans lining the hallway, cheering me on. So there’s that.

Asher: They were probably blinded by the amount of denim you were wearing. Denim vest, denim jeans…no shirt. It was a lot of…denim.

Me: It’s called high fashion. Look it up.

Asher: Did you mean highly questionable? I wouldn’t usually question you on typos, but…

Me: Says the man who wore cargo shorts to a wedding.

Asher: First, it was my ex’s wedding, so it seemed appropriate. Second, they had five pockets. And everyone knows five pockets is key. Do you know how many jello shots I fit in there?

Me: …

Me: You looked like you were ready to pull out a flashlight and compass at any moment and join Dora the Explorer on her adventures.

I gave myself a mental high five on that burn. It was a good one.

Asher: Hey, I was navigating myself to an open bar. At least I didn’t look like I just walked off the stage after performing “Bye, Bye, Bye.”

Me: You’ll see, next time we go out, I’ll wear that vest. And then you’ll see.

Obviously, the only person I wanted to look at me was Sloane. But I wasn’t prepared to inform Asher of that. He might take issue with the fact that the only thing I knew about her was her name.

Asher: …

My eyebrows rose, and I growled.

Me: Hey, none of that.

Asher: What do you mean?

Me: I mean, no…

Asher: I still don’t get it…

Me: I’ve worked too hard to get in the COT for you to just adopt our ways willy-nilly.

Asher: See, this is why I’m pretty sure you’re not in the “COT.” You just said “willy-nilly.” And literally no one says that anymore.

Asher: I also have doubts that Ari Lancaster allows Circle of Trust abbreviations. Doesn’t seem official enough, ya know?

Me:

Asher: …

Asher: Kick ass tonight.

I was grinning as I tossed my phone into my locker and pulled on my gloves.

“Does that smirk mean you aren’t going to suck tonight?” Ari asked innocently as he continued taping his stick.

“Or does it mean that you are preparing for more suckage?” Walker added. “Because it feels like that smirk could go either way.”

I scoffed and shook my head.

“Because in that case, we should just kill you now.”

That comment was from Lincoln. I side-eyed him…because honestly you never knew with him. He might not be joking.

Which would be unfortunate in this case since I’d only just found my new reason for living.

Lincoln clapped me on the shoulder, and I breathed a little sigh of relief—not that I would be admitting that. “Rookie, I have complete faith in you. There’s no way you’re going to fuck up like you did last game.”

His words seemed a little like a warning…but that might be fair in this case with how ridiculously bad I’d played last game. Everyone in this locker room wanted a Stanley Cup. Figuring out how to win that while also getting the girl who happened to be dating my sworn enemy was just going to be a little bit of a challenge.

I glanced at Camden, who was wearing a scary-looking smile on his face, and I gulped.

“I’m going to be so good tonight, boys. It’s going to be like the last game never even happened.”

Lincoln’s grip on my shoulder tightened one more time before he finally let go. “You do that.”

I stood up, still feeling very confident. In both my plan for Sloane and the game.

One of the assistant coaches came in and started giving us a pregame speech.

I didn’t need one of those tonight, though. I was fully pumped up.

I’d never been more motivated to go out and kick ass in my life.

* * *

SLOANE

The arena buzzed with pregame energy as I sat in the stands, my eyes focused on the ice. Tyler was out there somewhere, warming up. Every so often I’d glance over, and Tyler looked as if he was…posing. Like he was trying to give fans a good angle for their pictures. Which was weird.

I really wasn’t paying much attention to Tyler, though.

I couldn’t stop staring at him .

Logan.

I’d come to the game with good intentions. I really had. I’d kissed Tyler in the hallway before the game. I’d sat in my seat like a good girl, smiling and clapping or waving every time he skated by.

But as soon as Logan skated out on the ice, all of those good intentions had disappeared. All of my focus was on him —the way he moved, all power and control. He had that intensity, that raw focus, that I couldn’t tear myself away from. I could just imagine how all that focus and intensity would feel like if he centered them on…me.

The game hadn’t even started, but something in me had shifted. I wasn’t just acting anymore. I was…watching.

I was mentally cursing myself out when all of a sudden there was a commotion behind me. I glanced up, and before I knew it, a line of women, all dressed in Dallas Knights polos, were making their way down the stairs toward me. Each of them carried something—a bouquet of flowers, a basket, and…a jersey.

A Logan York Dallas Knights jersey.

“Excuse me, miss,” one of the women said with a bright smile, holding out the red roses. “These are for you, from Logan York.”

My brain stalled. “What?”

Before I could even process it, another woman handed me the basket—snacks and even more flowers. Then came the jersey, Logan’s number forty-two emblazoned across the back, with YORK stitched across the top in bold letters.

I blinked, staring down at the jersey in disbelief. What the hell was happening?

I looked back toward the ice, still stunned, and there he was—Logan. He was standing there, holding his stick, his helmet pushed up on his head, grinning like a cat who’d just caught a canary.

And, way too hot.

When he caught my eye, he winked and blew me a kiss.

Heat flushed my face instantly, and there was a strange fluttering feeling in my chest. I could feel my skin burning. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I knew I was blushing. Badly.

“What the fuck is this?” I heard Tyler’s voice, full of anger, from the ice. I whipped my head back to see him, skating toward Logan, his face twisted in fury.

Logan didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, watching Tyler approach like he had all the time in the world. That same grin still on his face, daring Tyler to make a move.

“You think this is funny, York?” Tyler shouted, his voice carrying across the ice. His teammates noticed the tension and started to hover, probably knowing what was about to happen. “Are you really hitting on my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend . That was a joke. I knew that was what we were pretending…but the fact that he could call me that with a straight face was laughable.

I ignored the fact that a part of me didn’t want him calling me that in front of Logan lest he get the wrong idea…

Logan didn’t move. He just shrugged, that grin widening as he casually waved in my direction. “Just thought she needed some snacks and a jersey. She’s looking a little out of place in the crowd.”

Tyler’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen before. His fists clenched, and I could see it in his eyes—he was ready to snap. He charged at Logan, his skates cutting into the ice with fury, but before he could get close enough, two of his teammates grabbed him by the arms, pulling him back.

“Not now, man!” one of them said, trying to calm him down. But Tyler wasn’t having it.

“You’re dead, York!” Tyler shouted, still straining against his teammates, his face flushed with rage.

Logan just smirked, unfazed. He turned and gave me another sexy wink, like this whole thing was just a game to him.

I dragged my gaze away, staring at the jersey in my lap like my life depended on it. My hands were trembling, my nipples were hardened into points under my bra. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it over the noise of the crowd.

I couldn’t stop the feeling creeping up inside me.

I wanted him .

And that was terrifying.

* * *

LOGAN

The second game had a completely different feel to it. The moment I stepped onto the ice, my mind wasn’t consumed with rage toward Miller like it was in Game One. This time, I wasn’t out to settle some stupid score or get caught up in whatever bullshit rivalry we had going on. No, this time was about her .

I could feel Sloane’s presence, even from across the rink. I knew exactly where she was sitting—front row, just behind the glass. The memory of the way she’d looked when I sent those flowers and the jersey was burned into my mind, the way her cheeks had flushed when I blew her that kiss. And now, all I wanted was to see that look again.

And again.

And again.

Preferably when she was writhing underneath me in my bed.

Forget Miller. Forget everything else. Tonight, I was playing to impress her.

The puck dropped, and we were off. I could feel the electricity in the air, the tension of Game Two thick in the arena. Tampa was fast, but we were faster. Every shift, every pass felt like we were locked in, and I could feel it building—the pressure, the anticipation.

Midway through the first period, we got a power play. I took the faceoff, locking eyes with their center for a brief second before snapping the puck back to Lincoln. The play moved fast—Ari fired it toward the net, but the goalie kicked it out, the rebound landing right in front of me.

I didn’t hesitate. I crashed the net, scooping the puck up with a quick flick of my wrist and burying it in the top corner before the goalie could react.

The red light flashed, and the crowd erupted.

But I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t celebrating with the guys. I was already skating toward the boards, straight toward Sloane’s seat. I slammed my fist against the glass, grinning like an idiot as I blew her another kiss, knowing full well the entire arena was watching.

She blushed again. That same look of surprise, like she couldn’t believe what I was doing—making her the center of attention. I felt that surge of satisfaction hit me like a shot of adrenaline.

“You need at least five more of those this series to make it up to us,” said Lincoln, patting my helmet as he skated by.

“You’ve got it, Daddy,” I said. It was only the bemused look on Lincoln’s face as we got off the ice that made me realize what I’d just said.

“Kill me now,” I muttered as Camden almost fell from laughing so hard. “I obviously didn’t mean that. It’s because you idiots are always joking about that. It was just in my head.”

“This better not ruin it for me next time Anastasia says it,” Camden finally said when he was able to form words, wiping his eyes because he was an asshole.

I dared a peek at Ari, because I definitely didn’t have the nerve to look at Lincoln.

Ari was scowling at me. He pointed a finger as he pushed through the gate and out into the action. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. You’re an even bigger simp than Disney! This is an outrage.”

He was still shaking his finger right before he slammed Miller into the ice, and I lifted a fist in victory.

“Any way we can forget that happened?” I finally muttered to Lincoln, side-eyeing him because I wasn’t brave enough to look him in the face.

“Not a fucking chance,” he answered with a smirk, his attention glued to where Walker had just made a save.

As the game went on, we kept pressing. The intensity on the ice was ramping up, but my head was clearer than it had been in Game One. No stupid penalties, no getting sucked into Miller’s crap. I had one goal in mind—score again and make sure Sloane was impressed.

Late in the second period, we got another break. Lincoln passed it up the boards to Camden, who fired a stretch pass right to my tape. I broke free, flying down the wing with a Tampa defenseman on my heels. The goalie came out to challenge, but I snapped the puck over his blocker, top shelf, right where Grandma hides the cookies.

The horn blasted, and I felt that rush again.

I didn’t even think about it. I skated straight to where Sloane was sitting, banging on the glass again. The noise was deafening, but all I saw was her—her wide eyes, the way she couldn’t stop watching me now.

Another kiss blown through the air. Another blush from her. And another victory for me.

“Three more,” Lincoln yelled, his fist raised in the air.

Evidently, scoring goals was much more effective than fighting when it came to getting under Miller’s skin. I’d outscored him five to one in college, but he’d always had the misguided notion we were competitors. Currently, his face was beet red under that helmet, and I could tell he was just waiting for an excuse to snap.

I gave him one.

Late in the third, with the score still tight, I saw my chance. Miller had the puck and was skating up the ice, trying to make a move. I was on him in an instant, sticking close. He didn’t see it coming when I reached out, subtly clipping his skate with my stick, just enough to send him tumbling forward, arms flailing as he face-planted onto the ice. The crowd gasped, and I could feel the laughter bubbling up from the bench.

He looked like an absolute idiot.

I couldn’t help but laugh, catching the look of fury on his face as he scrambled to get up. His teammates were losing it.

“You’re not very good at this,” I chirped, smirking as I passed by him.

“Fuck you, York,” he spat, but I just waved him off.

Miller could hate me all he wanted. I’d already won. I didn’t need to throw punches tonight to get under his skin. This was better—way better.

As the clock wound down, I felt the satisfaction building inside me. I’d done my job. I’d scored twice, humiliated Miller, and, most importantly, I’d made sure Sloane couldn’t take her eyes off me. Every time I passed her section, I could see her watching, her expression torn between shock and something else.

Something that made my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t used to.

The final horn blew, and the game ended with a win for us. The arena roared in celebration, but I was already skating toward the glass, toward her . I banged my fist against the boards one last time, my eyes locked on hers, and blew her the biggest, most obnoxious kiss of the night.

This time, she smiled. She tried hiding it immediately behind her hand, but it didn’t matter. She’d definitely smiled.

And I swear, that smile was worth every second of the game.

As I celebrated with my teammates, I had a big grin on my face. One step closer to making that girl mine.