Page 6 of Spilled Coffee

Logan raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. His stance alone said there would be no arguing with him. “I said drop ‘em,” he repeated firmly, his patience clearly wearing thin now. “C’mon, I wanna check.” Logan sighed, gesturing to Tank without taking his eyes off Ethan. “Move it.”

Ethan swallowed, then fumbled with his belt. Under Logan’s unwavering gaze, every movement felt magnified—the clink of the buckle echoing too loudly in the locker room, the slow slide of fabric as he reluctantly pushed his khakis down to his ankles.

Tank tossed Logan a tube of heat rub, then returned to sorting whatever gear he was sifting through in his bag.

Brick shook his head as if to say,this is why I don’t get involved in things, and headed toward the showers. “Catch you at the bar,” he muttered over his shoulder as Eddie followed behind him. “I need a damn drink.”

“We won’t be along until later,” Logan quipped without looking up. His smirk deepened as he added, “We’ve got a sports massage booked, and it could take a while.”

Eddie raised one eyebrow skeptically, but didn’t press further before following Brick out of the room.

Ethan stood there wearing nothing but tight white boxers that clung far too snugly for comfort—or modesty—while Logan crouched beside him.

Squeezing some of the cream onto his fingers, he then got to work on Ethan’s calf, rubbing with firm skilled hands.

What followed tested every ounce of Ethan’s restraint, not just because of the discomfort where Logan pressed too hard, but because—God help him—those hands were rough and strong and entirely too good at what they were doing.

Logan’s fingers dug into his muscles, firm and unrelenting. Ethan clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the ache rather than the heat pooling low in his stomach. It was almost impossible. Every knead, every purposeful drag of Logan’s palms against his skin sent a shiver rippling through him, awakening sensations he had no business feeling right now.

A familiar ache stirred deep within him, and he shifted awkwardly, his hand moving to cover it. His fingers curled into his palm as if physically restraining himself could somehow quell the traitorous response of his body.

Not now. Not here. He prayed Logan wouldn’t notice, but the more those hands worked their magic, the harder it became to ignore the growing pressure straining against his boxers.

His cock suddenly seemed to have a mind of its own, springing to life despite his desperate mental protests.

“It’s fine,” Ethan rasped, his voice a mixture of tension and mortification. He reached out, grabbing Logan’s wrist to stop him before things spiraled completely out of control. “Really, I’m fine.”

Logan glanced up, his brow furrowing as if considering whether to believe him. He grinned—a lopsided, easy grin that made Ethan’s stomach flip for entirely different reasons—and shook his head. “Nah,” he replied with a maddening confidence, his tone light but utterly oblivious (or maybe not?) to Ethan’s plight. “It still feels tight to me.”

Without waiting for further protest, he shifted his grip and pressed deeper into the muscle with deliberate precision.

Ethan bit back a groan—though whether from pain or something far less appropriate, he couldn’t say.

Logan’s thumb dug in a little too hard, sending a sharp jolt through his leg that danced dangerously close to pleasure. “What’d I say about discipline? If you keep tensing up like that, you’re gonna make things worse.” His tone was suddenly much more commanding.

Ethan nodded, quickly swallowing the lump in his throat. It wasn’t tension that was making him squirm, it was everything else. But how could he possibly explain that without humiliating himself? “Got it,” he mumbled, biting his lip so hard he almost drew blood.

Logan started kneading the back of his thigh. The sensation was maddening. His touch was firm, every movement calculated to find knots and work them out with an expertise that suggested years of practice.

Ethan gasped softly to himself when Logan’s hand roamed higher than expected, skimming dangerously close to areas that did not need attention right now.

Heat flooded his cheeks, flushing them a deep crimson, and for one whole agonizing moment, their eyes met.

Logan’s expression shifted, there was something in the curve of his smirk and the way his eyes lingered just a little too long that made Ethan wonder if…

“Alright,” Logan pulled back and handed Ethan the small tube of ointment. “That’ll do for now. If it gives you more trouble, go see Remi in the med room.”

Logan stood up and stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders in a way that made every muscle in his torso stand out. It was unfair how effortlessly perfect he looked, and the sight of him was almost too much.

“Yeah… sure,” Ethan croaked, clutching the tube tightly. His movements were stiff and awkward, and as he reached for his clothes, he was hyper-aware of every brush of fabric against his overly sensitive skin.

Logan turned back and their eyes met again—this time longer—and there was no mistaking the slow curve of his smile. “Well, what’re you waiting for?”

Ethan’s pulse raced, and he blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus on anything other than the fantasies flashing through his mind—ones of which involved pressing his chest against Logan’s or running his hands along those abs, and that…

“I said get dressed, Ethan!” Logan gestured to the pants on the floor before glancing at his watch. “We need to go.”

“Go?” Ethan scrambled for his clothes so fast he almost fell over. His cheeks burned hot as he fumbled with zippers and buttons like someone who’d never dressed himself before. “Oh, sure… I’m coming.”

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