Page 80 of The Cutting Edge
"Mission accomplished," I say.
"Open it!" he says, like a kid giving his mom a macaroni necklace at Christmas.
The box is unexpectedly heavy when I try to pick it up, so I tear at the wrapping as it rests in the passenger seat.
He's got a huge, expectant grin on his face, like he can't wait to see my expression when I finally get the surprise free from the box.
Pulling it out of the box, I ask, "It's super heavy, what is it?"
"It's a weighted blanket," he says excitedly. "For the practice rink."
I must still look confused because he explains further.
"I know it was tough for you the last time you were at the practice facility, you know, in the same place where you were hit by the puck. Weighted blankets are really great for anxiety," he says sweetly. "Plus, it will keep you warm at the rink..." he pauses comedically, "if I'm not available."
I'm overwhelmed by the gesture, and it's all I can do to keep myself from tearing up. I gulp in breaths, a smile plastered on my face. This is, by far, one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. Logan sees me.
"Thank you." I spin around and throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him on the cheek."You're a cinnamon roll, Logan Rivers. Big tough hockey player or not."
"Just don't spill the beans until after the finals, deal?"
"Deal," I laugh.
"You kids have fun tonight," yells Mrs. Markham from her front porch.
"Thanks, Mrs. Markham," Logan singsongs as he puts the weighted blanket in the back seat of his SUV and helps me into the car.
On the drive to the restaurant, Logan keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye and smiling. I stare out the window to hide my blush, watching the city blur past. His hand finds mine, his rough, calloused fingers intertwining with mine. I give his hand a little squeeze, and he squeezes back.
The warmth of his sweetness is pierced by a stab of guilt over not being able to tell him the team is paying me to spend time with him. I wish I'd never signed that stupid NDA. The guilt of keeping this from him is killing me.
When we arrive at the restaurant, First Choice, the aroma of smoked meats washes over us. My stomach rumbles loudly. Logan chuckles. “Sounds like someone’s hungry.”
“Starving,” I admit. “I didn’t have much for lunch today.”
“We'll fix that.” Logan opens the door for me. “After you.”
The restaurant is cozy, the air rich with the smells of barbecue. Two men behind the counter greet Logan by name.
"Hey Emmanuel, Roosevelt. Good to see you guys."
"Where's Poppy tonight?" asks Emmanuel, the taller one.
"She's at home, but she said to tell you both "Hi" and asked for her usual.
"Pulled pork kiddie plate coming right up," says Roosevelt.
He introduces me as both of the guys smile and welcome me warmly.
“Told you this was my favorite place,” Logan says as we grab a table. “Emmanuel and Roosevelt know how to smoke a mean brisket. You’re gonna love it.”
“If it’s your favorite, I’m sure I will.” The warmth in his eyes makes my heart melt a little. Logan peruses the menu, though I can tell he already knows what he wants. I think I do too.
We order at the counter, a veritable festival of meats for Logan, and a pulled pork sandwich and fries for me. I’ll be back on my training diet tomorrow, but tonight, I’m celebrating.
“That’s Poppy’s favorite,” he says. “I always order a little bit of everything, but I’ll share.”
Roosevelt cracks up from behind the counter. “You’llshare? You’llshare? You must bein loveor something. Emmanuel! You ever seen this dude share his meat with anybody?”
