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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Our third training session since Logan showed up at my house in the middle of the night is exactly like the two before it—brimming with a sexual awareness that's been unboxed and let out into the world to wreak havoc.
"I'm not sure I'm getting these barbell squats right, doc," he says, giving me a sideways glance as he lifts the weights off the ground and slides them onto the bar.
He's been off his workout game the last couple of sessions, but I've seen him do the squat correctly before. The capability is there, but he has been inconsistent. "What do you need from me?" I ask.
"Can you just," he nods at the bar before lifting it into position, "physically adjust me on the fly?"
I step closer, and immediately his minty scent mixed with his natural tanginess makes me want to suck in a deep breath. He's asked for "hands-on" adjustments in our latest sessions whenever he can't quite nail a skill. Before, I used to just tell him to look in the mirror, and I'd call out adjustments.
And I could still do that.
He squats with the bar on his shoulders, and I place a hand on his lower back, and another against his core. "You're too forward," I say.
With a nod, he sits back more, and when I glance up, he's focused on us in the mirror. Close together. Awareness buzzes between us like a live wire, and I wish I wanted to call an electrician, that I had a desire to put a stop to whatever this is.
"What?" I whisper.
"I just like looking at you," he says. "More specifically, I like looking at you next to me."
"Logan..."
"You said flirting was allowed."
We're close enough that when he comes out of his squat to stand upright, he towers over me. A shiver races down my spine. Our gazes are locked.
"Just flirting," I say, but my voice lacks the conviction I know it needs.
"If you were mine," he says, his voice gruff, "I'd tell you all the time how beautiful you are, how smart you are, how I can't stop thinking about—"
"Your next exercise," I say, stepping back. "Hockey is the focus, right? We don't want anything to interfere with that."
My reminder seems to work, and for the rest of our session, he's exactly like he was before he came to my house. Focused. Determined. Each exercise precise, pushing himself to the max.
We've got ten minutes left when my front doorbell sounds. Bituin, who manages my office, pokes her head in the workout room.
"Matilda is here. She wasn't able to leave Benji in childcare, so she's got him too," Bituin says, her long brown hair sliding off her shoulder to form a curtain.
I bit my lip and glance at the closet where I keep some toys for these situations.
