Page 33 of Perfect Playbook

Since my roommate has a boyfriend of her own, Logan and I often have my dorm room to ourselves, and boydo we use it. I had no clue what dam I was breaking when I started having sex. We can’t keep our hands and mouths off each other.

I lift his hand laced in mine and stare at it like it’s a miracle; maybe he is. Mymiracle. The way he arrived. The way he stayed. He spun a warm, much-needed cocoon around me, sheltering me from the world, and I healed in there. But I’m not sure I’ve quite turned into a butterfly.

For the first time in my life, I want to fly. But Logan soon entering the NHL is less like soaring and more like floating in deep space. It’s terrifying. We’re anchored to nothing. The mere thought of it leaves me with no oxygen. It’s likely he’ll move away. There’s one home state team, but I know how often NHL players can be traded, usually at a moment’s notice. I Googled it.

Logan isn’t afraid of leaving, or at least it doesn’t seem like it. He always alludes to us staying together. Sometimes he talks about how we’d see each other and make it work, and I hang on by one measly thread of hope that he gets signed by the Scorpions. There’s no topic, including my mom, that makes me feel more vulnerable than Logan entering the NHL, so I make sure we talk about it as little as we can without hiding it.

He traces the humps of my knuckles with his finger, focused on my skin as though he’s memorizing every contour. “Have you always loved baking?”

“Baking?” The question feels out of the blue here in my bed, especially when it’s a million miles away from where my head is at. But I sure as hell am not going to talk about what’s really on my mind.

I welcome the segue.

I don’t have to think about it for long, though, because baking has been in my life since for what feels forever. Theturning point with me and putting things in the oven is still clear as day.

“I started out making bread when I was about six, I think? Yeah, I must have been about six.”

I recall the moment so many years ago back home, when my mom had long, untamed hair. The kitchen then sported the seventies look with pine cupboards and mustard-yellow walls. Sometimes I miss that kitchen now because in my mind, so many of my best memories were in that harvest-colored room where my mom and I put things into an oven I called green and she lovingly referred to as avocado.

She didn’t want to redo the kitchen two years ago; my dad did. After he renovated it, we all loved the fresh, sleek modern look that brought our humble home into the twenty-first century. But now… I’d give anything to run my fingers along the patterned tiled counter with my mom next to me. I’d give anything to have it back even without her because her soul was in the cracks of it. I used to complain, but now, I’d even enjoy scrubbing the flour out of the grout just to see her close her eyes and inhale the scent of our sweet creations. It’s funny the small things you miss about a person, they’re the things you remember when they’re not with you anymore.

Logan reads my silence. “Are you thinking about your mom? You can tell me.”

Fully attentive as always, he puts me at ease so effortlessly, just by being him.

“Did she teach you to bake?”

He holds me more tightly, and I roll over onto his body a little more, my weight falling onto him.

Here, in his arms, I’m safe.

“One day, I was really annoyed with one of my brothers one day. I don’t even remember which one now. I went intothe kitchen in a huff, and Mom was making tortillas. She pulled a chair up next to her and told me to climb up. She was kneading the dough.”

If I close my eyes, I can still feel her tall, slender body slide in behind me. “She stood behind me and told me to ball up my fists. She was trying to make me laugh when she told me to punch the dough and pretend it was my stinky brother. She used to call them stinky to make me laugh.” I still feel her hands wrapped over my fists. “She said, my secret when your dad is being stinky? I punch the dough,mi ángel. Eventually, I feel better.”

I laugh to myself, but not because it was funny, rather because at the time, I had no idea pulverizing that dough would change the course of my life. “I loved punching that dough. But not because I was angry, it just felt so good on my hands. The texture of it was so… calming. It was smooth and sticky and crumbly all at the same time, and I just loved it. Some kids like Play-Doh, I loved real dough. After that day, I asked her to show me how to do it like her and learned how to knead.”

Logan listens with a soft smile and offers me space.

“We did that a lot. Eventually, as I grew older and it became a bit harder to tell her everything I was thinking, you know how it is when puberty hits, we used dough to communicate. My mom wasn’t like my dad. She was a lot more guarded.”

He nods knowingly, getting where my introverted nature comes from.

“The dough kind of got us moving and gave us a focus other than our words. It made conversations easier.”

Logan hums a wordless reply that says he’s right there with me.

My thoughts float far away to the cinnamon-scented moment when she promised me she wouldn’t die. My words are still agonizing to say. “She told me about her cancer while making churros.” She couldn’t admit how bad it was back then. Heck, I’m not sure she ever did. One day she just said goodbye.

“Anyway, it evolved from tortillas into cakes and other things, mostly because I loved talking to my mom in the kitchen. But I don’t take my anger out on the food anymore.” I let out a half-hearted chuckle.

He toes the cushion at the end of my bed with his bare foot. “Does that explain the donut pillow?”

I squeeze his broad torso hard, affectionately. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Logan Hunter?”

My leg is wrapped over his, and I run my inner thigh up and down his steely skating muscles. My knee catches on his dick.

“Careful under the covers,pastelito. I have essential reading to complete before heading to your dad’s today.” He reaches down and rustles in his bag, pulling outFarming Weekly.

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