Page 65 of The Cutting Edge
The crack of Logan's stick against the puck jars me from my reverie. In an instant, I'm back in this arena weeks ago, watching in horror as a puck rockets toward my head. The memory floods me with panic, my chest clenching as I struggle to draw a breath.
Not again. I can't lose it here, in front of all these strangers. In front of Logan. Or Coach Rocco. I can not, absolutely can not, have a meltdown during his practice. I close my eyes, trying to calm my mind and steady my ragged breathing, but the sounds of the rink suddenly threaten to pull me under.
Suddenly, a warm hand covers mine, startling me from the edge of a full-blown anxiety attack. I blink open my eyes to find Logan crouched in front of me, brows knitted with concern.
"Hey, you okay?" His voice is soft, gentle. The hand on mine squeezes reassuringly. "I didn't mean to startle you. Do you need to step outside?"
“You’re fast…” I say, “How did you get over here so…”
I stare at him, embarrassment warring with gratitude in my chest. He noticed my distress and left his practice to check on me. Logan Rivers continues to surprise me.
"Coco? What's wrong?"
I try to draw in a breath but it hitches in my chest, panic swelling inside me. Not here. Not now. I can't have an anxiety attack now—
"Hey." Logan yanks off his gloves and cups my face in his warm hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Look at me. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow, deep breaths."
I cling to his wrists, following his lead as he exaggerates each inhale and exhale. The tightness in my chest starts to loosen, my breaths coming easier.
"That's it," he murmurs. "You're okay. I've got you."
His thumbs brush over my cheekbones in a soothing caress, and gradually, the panic recedes, leaving me shaken but steady. I close my eyes, leaning into his touch.
"Better?" His voice is gentle. Tender.
I nod. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." He brushes his lips over my forehead, the contact fleeting but heart-stopping. "Remember, I owe you my life."
“Right,” I crack. “Unless you try to kill somebody else, and then you owe me half your life.”
“Exactly,” he smiles, warming me up. “I’ve got the spreadsheet right here.”
A lump forms in my throat at the earnest conviction in his tone. I never expected to find this with him, with any man—a sort of partnership, a safe place to fall. But here in his arms, that's exactly what it feels like.
"Okay, I'm fine," I say, pulse slowing to a normal rhythm under the warmth of his touch. I inhale deeply through my nose and count silently in my head, just the way the many, many, many sports psychologists my parents hired taught me. "Just a momentary panic attack. I'm sorry for causing a scene."
"Don't apologize." His thumb traces gentle circles over my knuckles. "I should've thought to warn you that the sounds might be triggering. If you need to leave at any time, just say the word. Or go. Whatever is best for you. Your well-being is my priority here, Coco."
The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes me. I tighten my fingers around his, a small smile teasing my lips. "You're a professional hockey player on the hunt for the Stanley Cup," I say. "That should be your priority."
He smiles and shakes his head. The ladies in the bleachers all lean towards us casually, conversations suddenly hushed.
"Now who's causing a scene?" I tease him. "You'd better get back to practice before your coach notices you're missing, Captain."
Logan glances over his shoulder at the team running drills behind him, then back at me. He hesitates for a long moment before leaning in to brush his lips over my cheek in a fleeting kiss.
"Take care of yourself," he murmurs, the scrape of his playoff beard sending a delicious shiver down my spine. Logan gives my hand one last squeeze before skating back to rejoin his teammates. I settle onto the bleachers, cocooned in my blanket, and warmed from the inside out.
"God, he's got it bad," whispers Jenny. "How do I get what you've got?"
A fractured skull? Try wandering out in front of the plexiglass.
I sink into the warmth of the blanket Logan tucked around my shoulders, watching him fly across the ice with a grace that belies his size. He's poetry in motion, each stride powerful yet effortless as he handles his stick like an extension of himself.
It's hard to reconcile this side of him with the gentle, caring man who kept me focused until the panic passed. He contains multitudes—a dichotomy of raw physicality and tender affection. I find myself wondering what other hidden depths lie beneath the surface, longing to explore them.
Which is foolish.
