Since I was a kid, making it into the World Hockey League was the ultimate goal. No relationship could match my first love, and after my rough childhood, I wasn't putting my heart on the line.
When Bellerive makes a successful bid to move the Califo...
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"I will admit," I say as he gets the TV set up, "that I don't know anything. Not how many players are on the ice at a time, not anyone's role or job, not what a single position is called. Not one."
"Not even the goalie?" He gives me a glance that would probably be teasing on someone else, but I'm not sure if that's what it is. Dry humor, I think. But I can't tell if he's making fun of me, or just generally a little amused. And by a little, I mean very little.
"Okay, so I probably could have figured that one out."
"None of the rules shit is as important as I might have implied earlier."
"Implied?"
"Stated," he admits with the tiniest hint at a smile.
"You called me useless."
"Not you. Your skill set."
"I would argue it was also my knowledge base."
He tilts his head from side to side, clearly contemplating my statement. "Yeah, okay. That might be true. I also admitted it was a harsh thing to say."
"But you didn't admit it was untrue."
"I guess we'll see," he says as he clicks the remote to start the game. "Can the world famous Sawyer Tucker nail her hockey analysis?"
"World famous?" I scoff.
"That's what your dad told me. Seemed very proud."
"Only because that title benefits him," I say. "You should have asked him what made me so special."
"Already clear he doesn't know," Logan says, sitting at the other end of the couch. "But I'm excited to find out." His tone doesn't seem excited, but then he glances at me, and our gazes lock for a beat. The air hums, and I'm startled by the shot of electricity in the air.
Is he flirting with me?
No, no. Absolutely not. He's loosened up ever so slightly, and I'm misinterpreting that. The notion that this guy—Mr. Grumpy, ten years my junior—could be flirting with me is laughable.
"Are you going to do running commentary?" I ask as two players meet in the middle of the ice and seem to have a brief sparring match with their sticks over the puck before everyone scatters across the ice.
Logan snorts and crosses his arms. "No."
"Are you playing in this game?"
"Of course."
"What number are you?"
"Eighty-eight."
And even if he hadn't told me, I think I'd have figured it out within the first five minutes of watching. He's really fast, and I don't know if he's supposed to be everywhere, but he's definitely hustling hard. I can see what he meant earlier about his on-ice mentality. The minute he's on the ice, the energy of the team shifts, which feels strange to say when I'm not in the building, only observing through a screen. I'm probably giving him too much credit, reading into something in the wrong way.
