Page 67 of Perfect Playbook

Just then, there’s a rhythmic rapping on my door.

Finally.

“Come in.”

Not one gorgeous hockey player, but two, enter my room. I’m surprised Logan fits in my small dorm room here, but it suddenly feels two sizes smaller with the giant that is Ashton.

“I brought another supporter,” Logan announces.

I lift an eyebrow at Ashton. “Did he tell you what the march is about?”

“Yeah. I have a mom. Jolie is practically my sister. And I love women.” He makes a fist and raises it. “The patriarchy is bullshit.”

I really have a soft spot for Logan’s best friend. On the outside, he’s one of the most intimidating men you’ll ever meet. Six foot five, stacked, lethal to watch on the ice, and the defenseman is lucky to still have all his teeth; he knows how to throw a punch and takes one like a man, too. And all the times we’ve hung out, he’s been incredibly down to earth despite his stature on campus.

He took me in immediately when Logan and I started dating, being happy for us and completely at ease even when he’s been a third wheel. I suppose when you’re the third wheel by choice and not because you’re nobody else’s, it’s not quite as upsetting.

Ashton could have anyone he wants but sure is picky. He’s a home-grown, apple pie kind of guy who wants someone interested in the simple life, and a lot of the women who approach him seem engrossed in the status.

I hope he never gives in to that.

“All right, boys. If we don’t hurry we won’t make it, and I hate being at the end of the march. Especially when I made wicked signs.”

“One sec.” Logan rushes to my bed and throws down a plastic bag then rustles inside. “I got us all t-shirts.” He pulls one out and holds it up against his broad torso.

It reads:The Patriarchy Won’t Smash Itself.

“This is mine,” he beams.

“You had to get one with the wordsmashin it, huh?” I cock my eyebrow.

He yanks me against his steely body and plants a kiss on my lips. He murmurs into my mouth. “It’s a very versatile word.”

He opens his mouth, and much as I want to invite his tongue inside, we’re going to be late, so I push him back playfully. “We have to go.”

“Hold on.” He swishes his hand around in the bag and pulls another out. “For you.”

I take the shirt and smooth it. Mine reads:

I’m not doing one more thing for a man today.

Not much makes me smile full tilt, but this does it.

Logan is that guy. On the surface, to anyone who doesn’t know him, he might seem like he’s in his own world. But he isn’t. He’s the best listener I’ve ever met and the most thoughtful person, and lucky for me, his love language is gift-giving. He leaves me notes, flowers, and stuffed animals.

And, of course, there’s the gift he gives me every single night.

He points to the shirt. “Good for today but also very useful when you go back to the Canyon for breaks. You can wear it around the house.”

As a woman with four brothers and a dad, this couldn’t be more spot-on.

I slip it over my head and smooth down my static hair. It’s a little tight, which he may have done on purpose, or maybe he hasn’t noticed I’ve put on relationship weight. All I know is that at night, when we’re rubbing up against each other, he always wants the lights on.

“I love it, Lo. Thanks.”

“And last but not least…” He tosses a t-shirt against Ashton’s chest.

Ashton doesn’t even look at it before sliding it on. He glances down at his chest where he, too, has a size that stretches to the limit over his wide frame. He reads aloud, “Real men are feminists. Aw, bro, that’s sweet. You think I’m arealman?Anda feminist? I’ve never felt so seen.”

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