Page 258 of Sin Bin

She lifted her head so she could see his face. “Do you want the truth?”

“Of course.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to see women commenting on your posts and liking your pictures. I don’t want to find myself obsessing over the female attention you get. It’ll drive me crazy, and I don’t need that kind of stress. So it’s best for me not to follow you.”

Logan nodded slowly, staring down at her. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I do.” His eyes sank deep into hers. “But I want you to understand that those women mean absolutely nothing to me. You’re the only one for me, Meadow. I mean that with every fiber of my being.” He searched her face. “Do you believe me?”

She dropped her lashes over her eyes, bit her lip and nodded. “I believe you.”

“Do you?” He tipped her chin up, forcing her gaze back to his. “Do you really believe me? Or are you just saying what I want to hear?”

“No.” She licked her lips. “I believe you, Logan.”

“Good.” He brushed his lips over hers, smiling as he ran his hand down her back and slapped her ass. “Now get in that kitchen and fix me a plate of food, woman.”

Sputtering with indignation, she smacked him in the chest and quickly sat up, making him laugh as she straddled him and pinned him down by the shoulders. He grinned up at her, enjoying the feel of her body on top of him, her thighs spread across his hips.

“Now,” she said tauntingly. “What was that sexist mess you were talking?”

He leered at her breasts. “Nice rack.”

As she sputtered some more, he rolled to pin her beneath him, making her squeal as he tickled her ribs. Their laughter rang out as they wrestled naked on the table, rolling and tussling and kissing like there was no tomorrow.

Tomorrow eventually came, bringing the unwelcome reminder that all good things must come to an end.

That night in Winnipeg, the Rebels’ winning streak ended with a 5-4 overtime loss against the Jets.

After the game, the mood was grim in the locker room. No one felt like talking as they sat at their stalls, stripped off their soggy equipment and grudgingly took questions from reporters. Their answers were pretty much the same. They credited Winnipeg for grinding out a tough win, acknowledged the energy of the crowd and talked about making adjustments before the next game.

After the reporters left the locker room, Logan continued undressing so he could hit the showers. He was just about to pull his pants off when someone called his name.

He turned around.

And froze in place.

Lucien Brassard was approaching with Cabe Landrieu and three men who looked like bodyguards.

Logan stared at his father, his blood boiling with fury so hot he could barely breathe.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Landrieu wore a big, pleased grin. Did he know that Lucien was Logan’s father? Or did it only matter that he was one of the richest men in Canada?

“Logan,” Landrieu said delightedly, “look who flew out from Toronto to see you play.”

Lucien stepped forward, carefully watching Logan’s face. “Hello again.”

Logan glared at him.

“Tough break tonight,” Lucien offered with a rueful smile. “You guys almost had them. It was so close.”

It galled and infuriated Logan to see the motherfucker wearing his jersey. He wanted to rip it off him and jam it down his throat.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he snarled.

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