Page 29 of Crossing the Top Line

Thefinalbuzzerblaresthrough the arena, and I let out a long breath, my cheeks sore from smiling for almost two and a half hours straight. With a flourish, I press publish on the post I’d had queued up for most of the third period.

@NOLAhockey: And that’s a wrap on the first game of the season. First two points on the board, and it feels so good!

The photo accompanying the post is a beautiful action shot Monroe got when Oliver scored his second goal of the night, the game winner. The final score was six-to-two, and while I know it’s too early to get my hopes up, I’m taking this as a sign of good things to come.

As I gather up my laptop, looking around the box, my smile falters for just a moment. I only catch the door to the box snapping shut to signal Gideon St. Clair’s departure. I can’t help sighing, but don’t let his disappearing act spoil my mood. After making the appropriate goodbyes, I head out of the box to the private elevator that leads up to the offices. I can hear the crowd’s excited chatter from the bowl, and a warmth fills my chest. The reaction from the fans online was relatively positive, though plenty of people aren’t quite ready to hop onto the hype train quite yet. But the people who were here for this game tell a different story.

The energy of the crowd tonight was something else, sounding more like a sold-out crowd than a library for the first time in multiple years, especially after Spencer scored within the first minute of his first shift on the ice. If we can keep up this momentum, then I think we’ll be in a good spot to fill seats all season.

I ride the elevator up to the Pub Eng office, and my phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m dropping my laptop off at its station.

Rachel: The usual suspects want to hit up Pat O’Brien’s. You in?

Me: For sure. Meet you at the tunnel.

I smile as I type out my reply, already excited. Wins were thin on the ground last season, and I’d missed blowing off steam with the guys. It takes me a few extra minutes to make my way back into the staff only area of the arena, the crowd still in the process of exiting. But once I’m back in the low light of the tunnels, I can move faster. There’s a bit of a commotion coming from outside the locker room, and I realize the press scrum hasn’t wrapped up yet.

Coach McQueen is lit with bright lights against a dark backdrop, the Mystic logo printed across the eggplant purple at regular intervals. There are more than a dozen microphones and recorders shoved into his face, the reporters edging closer and closer with every second.

“Is this our final roster, or will you be waiving anyone else?” a voice I recognize from the local sports radio station asks pointedly.

Logan sighs, hands on his hips. His shoulders strain against the crisp white shirt he’s wearing, and as I move around the side of the crowd to see better, I catch a muscle jumping in his jaw. He’s looking around the space, rambling off some wordy non-answer without any real conviction. I look around, too, trying to find whoever was assigned to be his minder for this, but I can’t find anyone.

“Assuming we’re going to see more of what we saw on the ice tonight, are you worried about other teams and their response?” Mark Henderson asks.

Logan’s head snaps around to find Mark in the huddled mass, and that muscle in his jaw ticks again.

“No, not really,” Logan says, tone curt.

I rush forward, elbowing my way to Logan’s side. “All right, gentlemen, we’ve waylaid Coach for long enough,” I say brightly but firmly.

“One last question,” Mark demands, shoving another reporter forward in an effort to get closer.

I smile, tilting my head. “You’ll have plenty of other opportunities to give our guys the third degree, Mark,” I tell him, grateful the other reporters take my jab as a joke.

I meet Mark’s eyes, and he scowls, his mouth opening again to press the issue, but Logan clears his throat.

“Thank you, have a good night,” he says.

To my surprise, his hand comes up to rest on the small of my back, taking me with him as he walks swiftly away toward the door to the locker and training rooms. We shoulder through the doorway, and I notice that his hand doesn’t drop until we’re well into the quiet of the hallway.

“Can’t believe Henderson is still here,” Logan grumbles, taking the smallest step away from me.

I snort ironically, looking up into his face. With his dark hair slicked back, the silver at his temples is striking but not unattractive. His eyes are more of a moss color in this light, and they’re staring down at me with gratitude sparking in their depths.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with him for that long. Someone’s supposed to be there to keep them in check and pull you out before they get too bloodthirsty,” I reply, an apologetic smile resting on my lips.

Logan nods but doesn’t respond. His hot apple cider scent is stronger in the relatively narrow space, and even though I’m in heels, he still towers over me. I want to say something to break the silence, but my brain refuses to put together a string of words coherent enough.

“Thank you, Miss Strauss,” he says, so soft that I find myself leaning in to hear him.

“You can just call me Tori, Coach,” I return, heat coloring my cheeks.

“Only if you call me Logan. Only people under my control have to address me with honorifics,” he shoots back.

I blink at the multitude of implications in that sentence. But I don’t get a chance to address any of them before Logan nods and heads off toward the locker room, leaving me with my jaw hanging open and lower belly in flames.

“You really had a lot of faith we’d be doing this tonight,” I joke with Rachel as I pick through the small trove of clothes she brought with her.

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