Page 152 of Ice Dance Hockey

“I think you’re mine again,” he says. “Am I forgiven now?”

He’s got a giant bruise on his shoulder from the game. I trace it gently as I try to muster up some anger, but he’s literally fucked it out of me. “How many more of these do you have?” I say instead of answering him.

“There’s a nasty one along my hip bone and I think one of my ribs is bruised, but that’s nothing. I’ve played with a torn meniscus. I’ve been stitched up during play and back on the ice for my next shift. See this scar on my elbow?”

I take a good look at the stark white line surrounded by shiny pink skin. “What’s wrong with hockey players?”

“See the little dots? I ripped the stitches, had to get it stapled together after the game.”

“It’s weird that you think that kind of barbarism would impress me.” I run my fingers over it and will never admit to the thrill that shoots through me. I kinda love how tough he is, but if I tell him, it’ll just inflate his already overinflated ego.

“You’re impressed, I can tell. Now, forgive me. I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

I kiss the top of his head. “Forgiven.” And still planning my revenge, but I’ll keep that to myself.

Chapter30

Smitten

Rhett

The weeks pass in a flurry of hockey games, ice-dancing practices, school, and us trying to find spare moments to be together. He comes to all the games he can, I sneak into his practices when I’m home and either follow him around his college campus or steal him and bring him to my place.

Scott showed up to practice one day with a nice shiny black eye, which he told everyone he got from a random mugging. I already had cuts on my knuckles from a brush with Sanderson’s jaw during a game—a defenseman for Boston—so Logan couldn’t say if it was me for sure, but he also didn’t ask. I’m sure he figured it out and felt that it was better not to get confirmation.

Scott’s lucky a black eye was all he got. If I think about him asking my already verging-on-too-thin Logan to lose a few pounds for too long, I want to do a lot more than that, so I actively push it from my mind. But Logan’s kept his promise and is seeing my personal sports nutritionist. She convinced him to try an essential fats oil. He was terrified for weeks that it would make him gain weight, but when all it did was improve his recovery, it laid the foundation for trust, and he was willing to try more of her suggestions. I’d still like to see him put on a few pounds, but if she keeps him healthy that’s all that matters to me.

I’m giving that woman a raise.

I haven’t taken Logan out in too long and that’s a crime. Jack and I don’t fly out until tomorrow—a game in Calgary—so I show up at Logan’s school prepared to abduct him after practice.

It means I get to watch him on the ice, but unfortunately, I have to suffer through Scott touching him. At least he hasn’t been on Logan’s case after my warning, but he gets to touch him in intimate places, and I swear he’s being too handsy just to fuck with me. I’m going to have Scott sent to ice dancing school in Switzerland. Scott smirks in my direction when Logan’s not looking and while I may not know the sport well, I know his hands are lingering in places too long.

Logan’s divine. His lines are sharp, and his execution is graceful. I could watch him forever.

Finally, Logan catches sight of me. “Baby!”

He skates over, and I draw more than a little attention as I make my way to the boards. Other ice-dance viewers pull out their phones to take pictures.

Leaning down, I kiss my man. Mine. All mine. And yes, I mark my damn territory, so Scott fucking knows to keep his grimy paws off—I know he still has the hots for Lo.

I kiss Logan until he’s breathless.

“What are you doing here?”

“Taking you out for dinner. How much longer will you be?”

“Not long, we’re just finishing up.”

I wait for him to have a quick shower after practice, and he slips into a dress that makes me question why I’m taking him out when I could be taking that off him. But I’ve made reservations this time and Logan deserves to be taken out. I make sure he’s covered in a long jacket to keep him warm and because of prying eyes.

“This place looks too fancy for how you’re dressed.”

I’m still wearing a hockey ball cap. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll eat, drink champagne, and then go home to fuck where we won’t be wearing anything.”

“Don’t worry about it? Did that actually come out of your mouth? What will the Gram say about us?” He cups his face with his hands in mock outrage. His eyes rake up and down my body. “You’re wearing jeans. You can’t be my boyfriend. He’d never wear jeans and a ballcap to Il Buco.”

They have a table for me, and no one says a word about my jeans. I order for us right away since I know his preferences. He glows when I’ve gotten everything right, and I congratulate myself on another victory.

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