Page 57 of Crossing the Top Line

“I could say the same to you,” I retort, pacing forward slowly to close the distance between us.

Logan chuckles, but doesn’t reply right away. His dark green eyes are nearly black in the shadow of his strong brow, even if his expression is soft. As I come to a stop in front of him and look up into his face, it strikes me how tall he is. Even with my usual three-inch heels, I still have to look up to meet his eyes. I’m sure if we were both standing on bare feet, the top of my head would barely clear his chin.

“Have a drink with me, Coach,” I say into the silence, a little more breathless than I’d anticipated.

There’s a moment when I swear he’s going to say no, that he has to work or get rest before tomorrow. But then something flickers in his eyes, gone too quickly for me to identify but replaced with what might be the first full smile he’s ever shown me.

“Just one, then we’re going to bed,” he says.

My stomach does a little flip, my imagination sprinting deep into the gutter at the implication of that for a moment before I slam the brakes. Thankfully, he starts toward the hotel bar before he can see the sudden flush to my cheeks. I follow behind him, trying and failing not to notice how good his ass looks in his slacks, but the cheer of greeting from the rest of the staff pulls my attention away before I can lose myself in those thoughts.

I step up beside Logan at the bar, waiting our turn to place our orders, Logan’s stare on the side of my face making my ears and cheeks flush warm. I don’t look over, my over-tired brain already proving how little it can be trusted to stay in the professional lane. His scent drifts over me, warming me from the inside like a hot mug of spiced cider on a frosty winter day. The rest of the group seems to fade, the conversations turning to droning background noise.

“What can I get for y’all?” the chipper bartender asks, pulling Logan’s gaze from me.

“Scotch, neat. And for the lady…” he trails off, and I look up at him briefly before turning to the bartender.

“Tom Collins, please,” I reply, thankful my voice is steady and pitched normally.

The bartender sets off to prepare our drinks, and not able to avoid it any longer, I turn to meet Logan’s stare. But as our eyes connect, he jumps, ever so slightly, which I probably wouldn’t have noticed if we weren’t nearly touching. Something slides across his face, and the intensity of his attention fades a little. A small part of my primal mind pouts at his mental distancing, even if it makes breathing easier.

When our drinks arrive, we move away from the bar to allow others to order, drifting to the side and standing near the end of the bar, the only free space available at the moment. My feet are starting to ache from my heels, but I do my best not to let it show. We drink in silence for a few minutes, and I know I should say something, make some conversation. But the air is comfortable. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it, scrolling through notifications I’m sure I’m going to reread tomorrow.

“You don’t check out either, do you?”

I look up from my phone to meet Logan’s stare again, face heating slightly. I set my phone face down on the bar top and sigh.

“It’s my job to keep my finger on the pulse of the fans, and it’s not like they keep normal business hours,” I reply, trying for humor.

Logan chuckles, taking another sip of his drink. He doesn’t flinch, not giving any reaction to the burn from a drink as stiff as that. He looks around the room, taking in the dwindling group of our co-workers.

“Maybe when I’ve been here longer, it’ll be easier to do this,” he muses, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or to me anymore. I chew the inside of my lower lip as I consider his words. His eyes are distant, looking but not really seeing as one of his fingers traces the rim of his rocks glass as it rests on the gleaming wood of the bar. It takes a surprising amount of willpower to pull my eyes from the sight, focusing on his face.

“Did you ever think you’d be a coach?” I ask, speaking carefully.

He turns to look at me, curiosity sparking in his gaze. He takes another sip, and I mirror him before I’m aware of what I’m doing. Our glasses hit the wood at the same time, the silence a little more tense than it was a moment ago.

“No, and certainly not at this point in my life,” he answers, voice a little flat.

I frown, mentally slapping myself. Of course, he didn’t. What a stupid question.

“But I’m glad I’m here,” he goes on, smirking. “I loved this team, and I always knew we could do great things with the right person at the helm. And you know what they say—”

“If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” I finish, laughing lightly.

He smiles, raising his drink for a toast, and I tap the rim of my tall, skinny glass against it with a pleasant chime. As we drink, I realize we’ve both finished, my heart sinking.

“Another? I still owe you one for bailing me out with Henderson,” Logan offers, something sparking in his eyes.

I nod, following him as we notice two stools suddenly freeing up. And now that the conversational floodgates have opened, it’s like we’ve known each other for years. The state of sports journalism in New Orleans and the league as a whole, our favorite cities to play in and visit, and on and on. Other staff members drift in and out of our little bubble, joining on occasion before leaving. One more drink turns into another, and one more, and then suddenly, before I know how, we’re the only two people left at the bar, laughing over a joke my fuzzy brain doesn’t quite remember.

As the laughter dies, a warm silence fills the space, and I look up at Logan’s face again. He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, the mantle of serious head coach of a professional sports team slipping away and revealing the enthusiastic, charismatic, charming, sweet hockey fan beneath.

“So, anyway, I had to bribe the guys behind Dad’s back so they would teach me all the fun swear words,” I finish, taking another sip of my drink.

Logan laughs as I finish my story of how I learned Swedish and French, finishing his drink as well.

“God, it must have been crazy, growing up in the Red Wings’ locker room,” he muses, not for the first time this evening.

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