Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

I can't remember the last time I was nervous about something where my gut brimmed with excitement rather than dread.

Logan didn't want to hide, so I think he'll be okay with Tamiko's plan, but executing it without consulting him is still risky. There's nothing Logan takes more seriously than his career. He's told me, and he's shown me how true that is.

I follow the Bullets' representative to the seat Tamiko arranged behind the Bullet's bench in Boston. When she came to see me, she already knew exactly what she wanted from me. Up until I got to the arena, I'd been convinced that coming here was good for Logan's career, but doubt is trickling in. What if, despite Tamiko's certainty, I'm playing this all wrong? I've read him all wrong? What if there's a very big difference between not hiding and being this public?

I'm also trying to convince myself that I'm not giving into someone else's needs at the expense of my own. Which, in the whirlwind leading up to boarding the Tucker private jet to get here in time, didn't even cross my mind. Fixing the problem was my priority.

Tamiko's positive that the more the press and public see Logan and I together, the less the age gap will be criticized. Familiarity breeds content, she said, which isn't exactly how that phrase goes.

On the plane here, I took a peek at my social media accounts, and hockey followers and middle-aged women—weirdly—were raging about me being thirty-one and Logan being twenty-one. Apparently, I'm taking advantage of him. Even if familiarity actually breeds contempt, I can't see how any of them could dislike me more.

Part of me wanted to reach into my phone and shake each and every one of them. They don't know him.

On paper, yes, the age gap might be eyebrow raising. A few months ago, before I met Logan, I would have been right there with the naysayers. But I'm convinced that if the critics came to know him like I do, they'd understand our age difference barely matters. A few pop culture references that I have to explain sometimes. He's more mature for his age than most obscenely talented twenty-one-year-old guys with overflowing pockets of money. On top of that, I'm recovering from a traditional age gap relationship that nearly destroyed me. Honestly, I don't know if that thought works in my favor, but age wasn't the problem between Dalton and me. Or maybe it was. God, I wish I could just pick a lane of thinking about the mental chaos Dalton caused.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Dalton doesn't matter.

At this point in our lives, Logan and I have common needs. It's that simple. Anonymous people on the internet don't get to sway me when they don't know either of us.

Or at least that's what I've kept telling myself ever since I deleted all my social media apps just before the plane landed. Even the little bit I read is wiggling into my brain and emotions in a way I don't want. Anonymous opinions will fester—I shouldn't have looked—I'm just hoping that the sight of Logan acts like a salve.

Tamiko can be the one to tell me if her social media strategy worked because I won't be checking.

"Here you are," the team rep says, gesturing to a spot directly behind the bench.

I slide into my seat and take off my jacket. The thick glass separates me from the team, but it's still the closest I've been to the action. During the Bellerive games, I'm always in the box with my dad, the royals, and any other members of the Advisory Council who decide to cheer on the team.

The game is already in the third period, and when we agreed on this plan, we knew I'd be cutting it close to make today's game. It's why I took my family's jet. Bellerive is tied 2-2, and I scan the ice.

There he is.

Locking in on him allows all my tension to melt away. Maybe the fans' reaction matters from a financial standpoint for Logan and the team, but their opinions can't change real feelings and connection. Maybe it doesn't make sense to anyone else, but he's what I need right now.

At shift change, Logan sails toward the door, and as he steps in, he glances up. Our gazes connect, and Radek, who's behind him, bumps into him. A pleased but quizzical half-smile tilts Logan's lips as he takes his seat on the bench. Whatever Logan says to Radek has Radek glancing over his shoulder and giving me a little wave before conferring with Logan again.

The media savvy part of me knows television cameras might have already found me from that one little reaction. My mother trained me to be aware of appearances, what the expectations of any situation were. When I was a politician's girlfriend, I was told what was expected of me. But with Logan—the star player's girlfriend—is a depth I don't know how to measure. It doesn't feel like I truly need to make anyone happy, but that instinct is still there. The desire to do the right thing—whatever that might be.

I didn't used to see the right response as also the one that made the most people happy, but somehow over the years, my perception became clouded with this desire to please, even at my own expense.

Logan and his line change on the fly, back out on the ice. The puck whizzes around the rink in quick passes that I almost wish I could see from above. There's real efficiency and speed on Logan's line, and it's obvious whenever they're on the ice.

Logan's told me that the team's biggest problem is that the talent doesn't go deep enough. One player can't carry a whole team. They can dominate a single game by scoring goals or assists—make league top scorer lists—but to win the top prize at the WHL level, he says the Bullets need more depth.

Radek passes to Auston who finds Logan sailing down the ice, and he passes him the puck, somehow skipping it over the defenseman's stick in what looks like luck, but knowing Auston, is probably skill. Either way, Logan's stride doesn't break, and he's one-on-one with the lone defenseman who he dekes out before flipping the puck into the top corner over the goalie's shoulder. It's so quick and beautiful, but a move I also know from all the games I've watched, tough to pull off. I'm already on my feet when the buzzer sounds, and the crowd roars. The thrilled noise surprises me, and I take in all the fans cheering, the number of Bullets' jerseys. Maybe Logan's recently televised performances in Bellerive haven't gone unnoticed. The goal his line scored is a regular occurrence there—just phenomenal hockey.

When the team's done celebrating on the ice, Logan skates to the bench and he points at me when he gets close. Then instead of sitting down, he leans over and puts his gloved hand on the glass that separates us, and I put my hand against his for a beat.

"That was for you." He grins. "I'm not fucking losing when you're here."

I can't help the laugh that bubbles up, and I'm sure the grin that lingers on my face is ridiculously wide.

"Move over, lover boy," Radek says. "Rest of us need to get in."

Logan sits down and slides along the bench, Radek beside him, and Auston on the other side. And then Logan's focus seems to be right back on the game again, on his feet every time there's a close call for an equalizing goal.

When the final buzzer sounds, the two teams meet in the middle of the ice to shake hands, then instead of skating to the door that would take Logan to the dressing room, he crosses the ice. Beside the aisle I came down is a door to the ice that I never noticed. Logan knocks on it while dropping his gloves and helmet on the ice. The guy guarding it gives a start of surprise, but he unlocks it and swings it open.

Still in his skates, Logan goes up the three concrete stairs to my seat, in the middle of the departing crowd, who have all stopped moving to watch him. I stand to meet him, and he draws me into the tightest hug.

"I'm not even going to ask why," he murmurs against my ear, "I'm just fucking grateful you're here."

Then he draws back, searches my face for a beat, but I'm not going to tell him no. He slides a hand into my hair, and his other stays on the small of my back, and he kisses me like he hasn't seen me in weeks instead of having crawled out of my bed this morning to make the plane.

It's a kiss that warms my chest, and then sends heat radiating down to my core. Like always, I could kiss him forever. It's only once people in the crowd start whistling, hollering, and clapping that I remember where we are. Then the heat goes straight to my face.

Oh, my god. There's public, and then there's this. We've either made things better or so much worse. No middle ground with a graphic public make-out.

I press my forehead to his chest, and he runs a hand along my back, clearly blocking out the noise around us.

"You've got someone to get you to the dressing rooms?" His lips are close to my ear to avoid shouting. "You're staying with me tonight?"

I nod, and I glance up. Without skates, he's tall. With them, he's like a freaking giant.

He lifts up one side of his hockey pants, and he tugs a puck out, holding it up to show me. "Got you this."

"A puck?"

"The winning puck. The one I scored with. A marker of your first away game. Just in case you don't make it to another one."

I don't tell him that Tamiko asked me to go to all of them during this run. There's no doubt he'll have questions, and answering any of these in the middle of the crowd that is still surrounding us won't do Logan any good.

Instead, I rise on my toes, but unlike normal, I can't quite make his cheek, so he picks me up until we're eye level.

"I can't fucking believe you're here," he says. "Surprises usually piss me off." He buries his head in my neck, and I thread my fingers through his damp hair.

"Maybe we should go somewhere more private," I whisper into his ear.

At that, he looks around for what must be the first time, and he seems to realize a lot of people haven't left. When he glances behind him, we both realize we're on the jumbo screen above the ice.

A frown mars his expression before he kisses my temple and then sets me down. "Text me if you get lost, okay? I'll see you soon." He plants one last quick kiss on my lips before trudging down the stairs, scooping his things off the ice in one fluid, practiced motion before gliding over to the team exit and disappearing from view. The minute he's gone, what's left of the crowd erupts into loud whoops and hollers of approval.

The middle-aged woman who was sitting beside me lets out a loud sigh. "How can I become God's favorite like that?" She turns to the guy beside her, smacking him in the chest. "Why don't you act like that?"

He lets out an oof but doesn't respond.

"Sorry," I say, stepping out of the way. "I didn't mean to hold everyone up."

"Honey," she says, patting me on the arm on the way past, "I don't care what they're saying on social media. You keep hold of that man. The look on his face when you first got here and he saw you—gonna live rent free in my head forever. Never seen Logan Bishop look so happy about anything. Come on, Bob," she says, tugging the man along behind her, "traffic'll be a bear."

Other people openly stare or smile at me as they file past. Being well known in Bellerive feels different than this, not as invasive. The team rep who escorted me to my seat appears at my side, and I sag with relief.

"Can you get me out of here to wherever Logan is?" I ask.

"Certainly. Follow me."

Now I just have to hope that once I explain why I'm here, Logan is just as happy as he was when he first saw me. 

I could swing two updates next week. Want an extra? Hit the star. Drop a comment. 

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