Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

I've watched Logan's post-game interview an embarrassing number of times. A number I will never admit out loud to anyone. After telling myself that this is definitely the last time because they played earlier this afternoon and I really need to go to bed, I rewind it again. I'm just about to hit play when my doorbell rings.

Leaving the replay paused, I check the time on my phone as I walk to the door from the living room. It's after midnight, which makes me wonder if it's one of my four siblings. No messages, though. So, I scroll to my security camera app, and I suck in a deep breath.

Logan?

I open the door, and there's always a beat when I first see him, where I'm surprised again at how tall he is, how broad. He's a brick wall of a man, and his finely tailored suit only seems to emphasize his height and breadth. Every single time my core warms at his proximity, as though his mere presence automatically cranks the preheat dial.

Minty goodness wafts toward me. After the game the other night, his skin smelled like a delicious mixture of peppermint and spearmint that made me want to bury my face in his neck, suck in a deep breath, and maybe run my tongue along the hollow there.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. I cannot believe I just thought that.

If I wasn't slightly mortified by my reaction, surprise would probably overtake the heat of my embarrassment. Neither of us is doing anything out of the ordinary, but I would almost bet that whatever I feel in this moment, he feels it too. It just is. This spark of instantaneous lust has never happened to me before, and the fact that he's the one inspiring it is...

Unprofessional, I remind myself.

"Are you okay?" I ask when he doesn't say anything. He seems to be drinking me in the same way I just did to him, as though I'm ice water on a scorching hot summer's day.

Take a sip. Quench your thirst.

No, no, no. What am I thinking?

"Can we talk?" His voice is gruff. "I know it's late."

He doesn't apologize for coming here uninvited. There isn't even a hint of contrition, as though he has every right to show up well past regular work hours. I don't even know how he knew my address. Politeness, and a desire to be near him, almost makes me open the door wide. I haven't seen him in two days, which shouldn't feel long, but it does.

Then I remember I'm not letting men dictate my boundaries anymore. Or I'm trying not to.

"It's after midnight. This can't wait until tomorrow?"

"I wanted to see you." Logan's jaw is set at a stubborn angle.

"You can't just show up at my house. I don't even know how you got here."

"My driver knows the island like the back of his hand. I told him to take me to Sawyer Tucker, and that's what he did."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Because you don't want me here?"

"That's not..." I tuck my phone into my pocket, and I scrub my hands along my face. "I need boundaries. We need boundaries."

He scans my expression, and I can't tell what he's thinking. When he finally responds, he says, "If I say I won't come to your house again like this—unless you ask me to," and his lips quirk into an almost smile, as though he thinks that outcome is possible, "can I come in now?"

"You came here straight from the plane?"

"I did."

I worry my lip, trying to decide if letting him in means I'm caving on my boundaries, or if the fact I want to let him in means the boundary isn't necessary anyway. My instincts were systematically eroded, and I'm not even sure if the places I'm patching up are the right ones. I'm just covering up the losses, hoping something sticks.

"Okay," I say, drawing back the door and stepping to the side. "But you don't come again unless we've agreed to meet. This isn't... We have a professional relationship."

"Sure, doc," he says, and although it seems like he'd say it in a condescending tone, this time he sounds contrite, as though he's only now registered that he's overstepped.

He gazes around the foyer, and he peers over my shoulder toward where the house opens up to a kitchen, living room, and a formal dining area.

"Is this a sit down conversation?" I ask. "You're not hurt or anything?" Then I worry that maybe he is going to fire me. Despite the chemistry between us, I know his primary concern is hockey and playing well.

"Not hurt," he says, jamming his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. "If I can come in, though..."

I lead him through the foyer, into the living room.

"Nice place," he says.

"I bought it when I got back from Northern University." What I don't say is that I loved this house, every brick, piece of furniture, and paint color, until last year. Until Dalton walked through it and showed me the skin and bones and guts of this place through his eyes. Now I can't seem to take off his x-ray glasses. All the pieces that don't measure up to some standard he set, that was never mine, and yet I let it become mine.

"It's so...bright," he says. "Fitting. Feels like you." There's the briefest hesitation. "I like it. A lot."

Such a simple comment shouldn't almost break me, but tears prick at the back of my eyes, threatening to pool. "Thanks," I say, my voice husky.

"Are you okay?" He touches my arm, and I press my fingers into my temples before facing him.

"It's just late," I say because I can't tell him anything else. I shouldn't. Boundaries are necessary.

Besides, what man wants to hear about how another man really did a number on your psyche? Most of my girlfriends don't know. My family doesn't know. Logan should be the last person I'm confiding in.

We get to the living room, and his face is frozen on the huge screen above the fireplace.

"You were watching the game?" he asks.

"Yeah, just getting to the interview part." The fact that I could recite almost word-for-word what he says is not at all weird.

When I sit on the couch, he sits on the other end, not some other piece of furniture far away from me. Another surge of mint hits my senses, and I want to close my eyes. God, not even that. I want to scooch closer, identify each note of the fragrance on his skin.

Such a bad idea.

"What did you want to talk about?" I ask when he doesn't start the conversation. It's one thing I'm learning about him—unless he's in a rare playful mood, he won't be the first to speak.

"I want to know what it'll take to get you to come on the road with the team."

"No one needs me to travel with the team. You have Ken."

"I need you. And I'm not... I don't say that lightly. That's not something I just say, to anyone."

If he knew me better, I'd say he phrased that in such a Sawyer-coded way that I can't help but want to say yes. My veins are on fire with a desire to say yes. Being needed is what got me into the trouble with Dalton in the first place. He needed me to win his seat on the Advisory Council. He needed me to show up for him. He needed me to help mingle and convince people he was the right candidate. He needed me to get the Tucker family behind him.

And I did all of it with a song in my heart because I love nothing more than to feel needed.

But his needs sucked almost every ounce of who I am out of me. I shriveled into someone I barely recognized, and I'm only learning to find my shape again.

"When I signed on with the team, I was very clear about what I could provide. You play eighty-two games. Forty-one of those are off island. It's not a sustainable model for me to keep my practice on island."

"During the off season—"

"I'd have no clients left for the off season. Besides that, I'm one of the few physiotherapists that does pro-bono work. If there's a family that can't afford physio, I take them on as clients. I really love that part of my job, and I'm starting to love training you too. But I need balance. I can't go all-in with you at the expense of the life I have here."

He scratches his bearded chin and takes a deep breath. "When I want something, I'm not good at letting it go. Terrible at it. But it's what got me here in the first place. So, it can't be all bad."

I don't say anything, I just wait for him to come to whatever conclusion will either draw this line of thinking to a close or turn into a fight. I can't lose myself again, and I could so easily lose myself with him. The fire in him, that desire to win, makes me want to spend time with him, be there for him.

Hello unhealthy pattern.

"I would have really appreciated that free physio when I was a kid." His voice is gruff. "Would've meant a lot to me. You're doing a good thing. Maybe we should train at your office instead of the arena, so you can fit those people around me, so your days aren't so long."

"Oh," I say, caught off guard. "That would..." Make my life easier. But his about face has robbed me of more words.

"All the away games are off the table? Completely?"

"I don't understand why you want me there." Which is true. The team's physiotherapist, Ken, is more than competent. The Bullets hired me to be Logan's trainer, and instead I've morphed into a dual role that I never agreed to, but that I haven't minded at all.

"I follow my instincts on the ice and off." He searches my face, and his expression morphs into some sort of conclusion that causes him to lower his shoulders, as though he's relaxing into it. "I'm going to be brutally honest with you, lay all my cards out because that seems to be the only way I know how to do anything with you."

"Okay," I say, and I can hear my note of uncertainty.

"I won't push, and I'll forget we ever had this conversation, if that's what you want. No questions asked. No negative consequences for whatever you say in response."

My heart thrums at the implication that he's about to say something that's going to shift our dynamic in a way I'm not sure I'm ready for. But I don't ask him to stop talking or slow down or reconsider, I just wait.

"There's something between us. I don't know what it is. I know you feel it, and I know I feel it."

He says it with such certainty, completely confident in the vibe that's been becoming progressively stronger. Somehow I managed to claw it back after I spent the night at his apartment, but I never felt like I had a good grasp on my feelings, never believed I had full control.

"And I was determined to ignore the attraction or whatever this is the last few weeks, and I will if that's what you want."

"I don't think we should... It's a bad idea... I just got out of a..."

He doesn't try to talk me into anything, he just listens to me stop and start my objections.

"I work for the organization, and I'm ten years older than you. Ten years."

"I grew up fast, and I've never been with anyone who was my age or younger. Never appealed to me."

"This is... This is madness, Logan. Utter madness."

"Yeah?" He leans back into the couch, clearly not going anywhere. "This still feels like you sorting out what I've laid on the table and not what you actually think—yet."

"Am I reading this right? You're basically asking to sleep with me. One night? An affair?" It should be so much less appealing than it is. But that stupid preheating thing that my body does whenever he's in close proximity has definitely reached the maximum temperature.

"Personally," he splays his hand on his chest, "I don't think we need to call whatever we decide to do or not do anything in particular. I'm just looking for permission to explore."

"That sounds very casual." He's still on the other end of the couch from me, and we're locked in. "You'd risk our working relationship?"

"I actually don't see it as a risk. I'm exceptionally good at compartmentalizing everything. Hockey. Sex. Other training. Friendships."

"You coming here at midnight seems to counter that statement."

"Fair," he says with a little chuckle.

"Relationships, especially romantic ones, are messy." The mud still coats me from the last one.

"You don't want to risk it." It's a statement, and while he doesn't sound thrilled, he's not angry either.

"I like this job with you, even more than I thought I would." For the first time in a long time, I feel alive, thriving. "I'm fine with flirting or spending time together, but I think a physical relationship—no matter how we tried to frame it—would be a disaster."

"Spending time together outside of the training we do?"

Where he's learned to trust his instincts, I've come to distrust mine. So, as we stare at each other across the expanse of the couch, part of me thinks that hanging out with him is a bad idea and another part of me thinks he might be the key to me finding everything I lost. As long as we keep our interactions light, nothing could go terribly wrong between us if we're not having sex. 

The second guessing starts the minute I've had the thought.

But I've forgotten what it's like to be happy, at least for any length of time, and I've been happy helping him train, learning the game, watching him play. Maybe that's an old pattern, one I shouldn't repeat, or maybe it's a way back to myself when I'm dealing with a person who won't make me question every aspect of myself.

"Did you mean what you said about my house?" I ask.

"Your house?" His gaze is quizzical, and he breaks eye contact to look around. "Yeah," he says, and there's true sincerity in the word. "I don't know what I was expecting—I don't think this place is it—but it fits you. Bright and airy and beautiful."

My heart aches at his words, words I never realized I needed to hear from someone. Maybe spending time with him is a bad idea, but he gets me, and I need people who see me and appreciate what they see.

"We can spend time together outside training," I say. "I'd like that."

"Me too," he says, and the deep timber of his voice seems to rumble from his chest, across the small space between us, and right into mine, nestling far too close to my heart. 

Well, he laid his cards on the table after all. Spending time together outside of training is probably totally fine, right?

Stats:

Unique readers: 86

Engaged readers: 146

Total reads: 4115