Page 69 of Crossing the Top Line

I sigh, nodding slightly. “It’s a big trip,” I say, trying not to put too much meaning into my words.

“Tell me about it.”

I turn to look up at him again at his sullen tone, my lips tugging down in a frown at the worry lines creasing his forehead. My heart squeezes with empathy, and I reach out and put a hand on one of his biceps.

“Are you okay? Like, mentally?” I ask, my voice low.

The last thing I need is for one of the coaches overhearing me asking a star player if something’s wrong and getting Spencer benched over nothing. I glance around, relieved to see Logan and the coaching staff parked on a set of stairs, eyes fixed on a tablet, presumably watching game footage. When I look back at Spencer, his eyes are on my face, scanning it for something. My frown deepens for a moment before he lets out a long breath and puts a hand over mine on his arm.

“I’ll make it. I’ve done a lot of processing over the last few weeks, but I don’t know if it’ll ever be easy to go back there. But it’s just part of the job, you know?” he says, speaking low and fast, none of that sparkle I’m used to seeing in his eyes.

“We shouldn’t have to be around the Wardens’ players except at game time, and we definitely won’t be around their staff,” I reply, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

He nods, giving me a little smile that actually reaches his eyes. “I know. But I’d prefer not to talk to the media while we’re out there, if that’s possible,” he says, leaning in so his whisper doesn’t carry.

I nod, already pulling out my phone. I’ve received several requests for interviews from the local journalists, but I’d held off on replying. Now my thumb is flying over the keys, typing out polite but professional declines. “I’m never going to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I say as I work.

Spencer pulls my attention back as he pulls my hand away from his arm and lifts my knuckles to his lips. The contact is brief, but it still makes my stomach lurch with pleasant heat. His eyes are deep blue pools of gratitude, even as he lowers our joined hands.

“Thank you, Tori. I owe you one,” he says emphatically.

I have an impulse to ask more questions, to figure out who in San Francisco made him so wary of speaking publicly. A protective urge, I realize with a flush. I clear my throat and remove my hand from his grip, taking a step back.

“Just doing my job,” I mutter, ducking my head as I finish writing the emails.

My seat on the plane is a window seat, a welcome change. I set my bag in the empty spot beside me, though I know it’ll probably do very little to deter my travel buddy from joining me. I’ve got my laptop out and headphones on, working on the edit for my most recent Behind the Number interview with Alexi Volkov, when movement out of the corner of my eye makes me sigh. Shoving the headphones down my neck, I’m grumbling before I even get a chance to confirm who’s trying to join me.

“I actually have work to get done, and I—”

“That’s good, because I do, too,” the smooth, deep voice rumbles.

I look up and my jaw drops as I realize it’s not Eli, but Logan, who’s holding my bag out for me to take. I reach out and grab it, shaking myself from my stupor as he sits and pulls out his legal pad and tablet, setting up his tray table. A wave of his scent, spicy and warm and comforting, falls over me. We have only interacted in passing over the last few weeks, neither of us mentioning what almost happened at the hotel bar in Nashville. His deep green eyes still spark with those same embers I’d recognized before, igniting my lower belly and heating my face.

“Sorry. I thought you were—”

“Jokinson?” Logan finishes, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

I flush and look away with a nod, eyes locked on my screen, but not really seeing anything for a while.

“Here are your coffees,” a bright male voice chirps from the aisle.

I look up in time to see Logan holding out a cup of coffee for me. I take it with a smile of thanks, looking out the window to watch the equipment staff help the airport workers load up the team’s gear bags.

“I’m glad you’re going with us on this one,” Logan says into the silence, pulling my gaze back to his.

He’s looking at me with a serious expression, eyes locked with mine and not letting go. My mouth goes dry, and I take a sip of coffee to give myself time to think. But it’s much hotter than I’d anticipated, and I wince as it burns my tongue. But that only serves to splash more boiling liquid onto my blouse.

“Fuck, that burns!” I hiss, trying to wipe away whatever drops I can manage.

“Are you alright? Do we need to get medical?” Logan asks, voice frantic as he starts to rise out of his seat before I can answer.

“No, I’m fine. Just happy I’m wearing black instead of the white one I packed,” I deflect, closing my laptop and shoving it away before anything can happen to it.

Logan gives me a serious look, still hovering in a crouch over his seat. When he does sit down, he reaches over and takes the coffee from me. A jolt runs down my arm at the brush of his calloused fingers against mine, and I’m so stunned that I can’t react as he waves down the flight attendant.

“Put this on ice. And turn down the temperature of your machine,” he orders, words no louder than a whisper but full to the brim with authority I’ve never heard from him before.

My core pulses with heat, the spark from earlier burning hotter. Alphas are the more dominant designation, and I’ve been around enough of them that his attitude shouldn’t be a surprise. But usually that sort of tone is directed at me, not used on my behalf. The primal part of my mind practically purrs with feral delight, and it’s only the knowledge that we’re surrounded by dozens of people that keeps me from showing Logan my belly in submission.

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