Page 23 of Off the Ice

And his lips came down to meet mine.

It wasn’t rushed or demanding. It was steady, deliberate, and so perfectly Logan that it left me dizzy. His lips moved against mine with a confidence that felt earned, his hand coming up to lightly brush my cheek as he deepened the kiss just enough to leave me breathless.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and searching, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his usual swagger.

“Good luck out there,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked upward. “I don’t need luck, Carlisle. I’ve got you watching.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping past him and toward my seat. But even as I sat down, the taste of him lingered, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to focus on anything else.

I needed to get a grip.

This was fake.

I had to keep reminding myself of that—over and over again, until it stuck. We were putting on a show for the press, playing our roles, making sure Logan looked like the golden boy the media wanted him to be. That was the whole point of this arrangement. Not the way my pulse stuttered every time he touched me. Not the warmth that curled in my stomach when his lips brushed mine. Not the way my body still hummed with the ghost of his kiss.

I forced a slow breath, willing my heart to settle. It was just a role. A carefully crafted illusion.

So why did it feel so damn real?

Logan

The energy in the arena was charged, but my head was anywhere but on the ice. Every time I settled into position, the kiss with Ava replayed in my mind like a highlight reel I couldn’t stop watching. Her taste, her touch, the way her hazel eyes softened for just a second before she leaned into me—it was all I could think about.

Which was a problem, because the Colorado Colts weren’t here to make things easy.

The first period was a mess. The Colts were fast, aggressive, and they knew how to exploit our weaknesses. Their captain, Brett Hanley, was everywhere, setting up plays like he’d written the damn rulebook. Five minutes in, they scored on a rebound that bounced off one of our defensemen’s skates. Ten minutes later, they did it again on a clean one-timer that left our goalie floundering.

We looked disjointed. Every pass was a second too slow, every shot was a little off-target. And me? I was distracted as hell. My skates felt heavier than usual, my focus slipping every time I caught a glimpse of Ava sitting glass-side. She was leaning forward, her gaze sharp and focused, oblivious to the chaos I was wading through on the ice.

When the buzzer sounded to end the first period, we skated off down two, and I was in my own head, trying to shake off the weight of it all.

The second period started rough, and it didn’t take long for the frustration to boil over. Hanley had been throwing his weight around all night, chirping at anyone within earshot and playing just dirty enough to keep the refs’ whistles in their pockets. Midway through, he took it too far. Jaymie was chasing the puck along the boards when Hanley stuck out his skate, tripping him hard into the glass.

Jaymie went down in a heap, and the refs’ arms stayed stubbornly at their sides. The entire bench erupted, and before I could even react, Jaymie was on his feet, his gloves flying off before Hanley could blink. The fight was brutal from the jump. Jaymie threw a sharp right hook that caught Hanley on the cheekbone, followed by an uppercut that knocked the captain’s helmet loose. The crowd roared as Hanley stumbled, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He grabbed Jaymie by the collar, yanking him off balance before landing a heavy shot to his jaw.

The refs started circling, but no one was stepping in yet. Hanley wrestled Jaymie to the ice, shoving him down harder than necessary. That’s when I saw red.

I didn’t think. I just reacted. My gloves hit the ice before I even reached them, and I grabbed Hanley by the front of his jersey, yanking him up and away from Jaymie. His eyes went wide for half a second before my fist connected with his jaw. The first hit stunned him, but I didn’t stop. I shoved him hard against the boards, following up with a cross-check that sent his helmet flying. He tried to swing, but I ducked, landing a clean shot to his ribs that had him gasping.

“Stay the hell away from my teammates,” I snarled, shoving him again for good measure.

Hanley finally managed to regain his footing, his lip split and blood trickling from his nose. He swung wild, catching me on the shoulder, but I barely felt it. I stepped in, driving my fist into his stomach with enough force to double him over.

By then, the refs swarmed us, pulling me off him as the crowd erupted into deafening cheers and boos. My chest heaved, adrenaline pumping as they shoved me toward the penalty box. Hanley smirked through the blood, and it took everything I had not to lunge at him again.

“You’ll regret that, Bennett,” he called, his voice hoarse.

“Not as much as you will,” I shot back, glaring at him as they dragged us in opposite directions.

Jaymie got tossed from the game for instigating, which pissed me off even more. Hanley got a weak two-minute penalty for tripping—tripping!—while I got slapped with a five-minute major for fighting. It was bullshit, and the whole bench knew it.

When I skated into the box, still seething, my gaze automatically went to the glass. Ava was on her feet, her face flushed with anger as she banged on the glass with both hands. Her mouth was moving, yelling something at the refs I couldn’t hear over the noise of the arena. The sight of her, fierce, loyal, and completely unrestrained, lit something in me I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I sat back in the box, the anger in my chest easing just enough to let a hint of a smirk tug at my lips. Whatever Hanley thought he was going to do, I wasn’t done. And Ava? She’d see exactly what kind of player she was backing tonight.

By the time I stepped back onto the ice for the third period, I was laser-focused. The score was still 2-0, and the clock was ticking. If we were going to pull this off, it was going to take everything we had.

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