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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The Bullets lose 5-3, but Logan scores two goals and an assist. Throughout the game, I keep turning my dad's claim over and over in my mind. Logan mentioned that a trade might get him in cup contention, but hearing my dad say it too drove home that it's a possibility. What's Bellerive offering Logan in terms of a career? Lots of ice time, but given Bellerive's very uneven performances this season, the bigger rewards won't come.
I'm standing in the hallway outside the dressing rooms waiting for Logan when a text from Tamiko comes through. She's somewhere in the building, and I half expected her to be at my side. Since Logan's become chattier with the press, he's become her favorite player.
Did one of you leak this? It's cute, but a bit risqué for the public-private line we've been walking with you two.
I click on the attachment, and while it loads, I try to remember what photo Logan might have taken. He always asks, and I don't remember anything risqué being a discussion.
Once the photo appears, ice streaks through my limbs. The photo is of me. My hair is shorter than it is now, and the sultry expression on my face is one I only get when I've had a few too many alcoholic drinks. My shoulders are bare, blankets clutched to my chest. It's from the waist up, so other people might not be able to tell I'm in a bed, freshly fucked.
The memory returns as though it happened yesterday and not months ago. My stomach rolls and threatens to reject the dinner I had hours ago.
Not me. Logan texts back. But I know who. I'll take care of it.
Whatever he thinks he's going to do, I already know I don't want it. I stride closer to where the players come out, so I can catch Logan as soon as he leaves.
Abort! Tamiko texts back, clearly on the same wavelength as me. We have channels to deal with this. We can spin it. Do NOT take care of anything. I take care of these things. I do that.
Not this. Logan texts back.
His responses are aggravating and thrilling. Part of me loves that he's so uncompromising in his defense of me. But the other part of me, the part who's watched Logan in his earlier seasons, knows the emotional control he claims to have is pretty new. The hot head still lives inside him somewhere, and I'm worried about what that version of Logan might do.
As soon as I catch sight of him coming out of the dressing room, there are almost literal thunderclouds over his head. His expression is not one I'd call in control, and there's the tiniest frisson of uncertainty that snakes down my spine—an old muscle memory—before I remember that this is Logan.
"Hey," I say, grabbing his arm when he almost walks past me.
"Don't even try to talk me out of it."
"To be clear, "it" is what?" I guide him toward the weight room down the hall. After I open the door, I almost have to drag him in.
"Going to see Dalton."
"No, Logan."
"Tell me he didn't take that photo of you, and I won't go."
"You know I can't."
"Why would he leak that photo?" He's watchful, as though searching for a truth I haven't told.
I shrug my shoulders.
"Doc, if you don't want me to go, I need the truth."
"If I tell you the truth, you'll just want to go even more. And I want you to stay with me." I wrap my arms around his neck, and I press myself against his suit-clad body. "Stay with me. We're together, right? Whatever he's doing doesn't matter."
"Tell me." He closes his eyes, and his jaw tics.
The urge to keep what I do know to myself is incredibly strong. There's no telling how Logan will react, but I also want him to understand why he has to let it go.
"I think that photo is a warning."
"Because..." He opens his eyes, assessing.
"I went to see my dad to ask about the trade situation. Dalton already told me to stay out of team business."
"When did he tell you that?"
"A while ago."
"Hmm," he says, and I can see the analysis happening behind his hazel eyes. "The day you told me you needed some time alone."
"It's a warning, Logan. You don't need to go see him. Especially not when you're mad. It's too easy for things to get out of control. Dalton is good at pushing people's buttons."
"I won't go tonight." There's still so much tension in him. The rage is thinly masked. "But that doesn't mean I'm not going. I'm not sitting back and letting him do this to you. I won't."
I kiss him, not because I want him to take Dalton to task, but because the urge to tell him I love him is so strong. The words are in my throat. The thought of saying it scares me because I don't know what we do with that. Holding the truth back feels cruel, but saying it also feels mean. There's nowhere for that love to go. Even if we could line up the marriage and baby timeline, his life—what he wants more than anything—might have to exist off this island, and everything I hold dear is here.
After talking to my dad, after chatting with Logan the other night, I'm realizing that maybe we collided to learn how to love someone else the right way.
For me, I've never loved anyone else the way I love him. It's complete and unwavering. The way I'd want to feel about whoever I intended to spend forever with. That's also really scary. Loving someone the way I love him means I won't necessarily make choices that are in my best interests. I'd put him first, and I'm only just figuring out who I am, what I want.
The joy and the sorrow of this big love is that I'll never let myself get lost in my relationship with him. I won't. I can't.
Our end is set.
The only thing I'll lose is him.
Even thinking that makes a denial leap into my head, my heart.
The good that's come out of this relationship will have to form the runaway ramp—like those used on highways with dangerously steep hills—constructed to save me when I realize I never applied the brakes, and I'm headed full speed into emotional disaster. Every pebble of care and concern he's given me will have to be enough to slow the inevitable crash.
Our five-year—even our ten-year—plans look nothing alike. We're on separate routes to happiness, even if they're running parallel right now.
Well, Dalton has fired the first shot. Can Logan let it go?
