Page 115 of Defensive Desire

I blink, refocusing on him.

They’re expecting a storm.

But I just… exhale.

“Yeah, you know what… I am."

There's a brief silence, but I take the moment to clear the air.

"I’ve been chasing pucks since I was five,” I say quietly. “My whole life, I thought this”—I nod around the room—“was the dream. And it was. It’s been one heck of a ride, it's meant everything to me.”

My voice catches, but I push through.

“But now… I’ve got a different dream.”

Big Mike frowns. “Logan, we know this is hard—”

I look up, meeting his eyes directly for the first time since I walked in.

"I'm not going to Seattle," I say simply. “Thank you. For everything. Coach, for giving me a jersey. Mike, for giving me a team. Blake, a family.”

Coach Brody’s jaw tics. Blake looks like he’s fighting something in his throat.

"I'm not sure what effect this will have on the trade deal with Seattle," I say, standing up from the table. "But now... that's not my problem. Big Mike, Coach Brody… As of this moment, I'm officially a retired hockey player."

The room freezes.

Coach Brody's mouth falls open. Blake's eyes widen like he's just seen a ghost.

"You're—what?" Big Mike sputters, half rising from his chair.

"Retiring," I repeat, the word feeling strange but right on my tongue. "Effective immediately."

Coach Brody recovers first, the hint of a smile on his lips, like he feels somehow influential on this sudden change. "Logan, are you sure about this?"

Big Mike's face has turned an interesting shade of red. "We're in the middle of negotiations with Seattle! Millions of dollars—"

"I understand that," I say calmly. “But I’ve found a new dream now. And I need to go get her. I can compensate the loss, or payout what's left of my contract with the Icehawks. Whatever needs to be done, I'll do it. But my mind is made up. I'm retired.”

The silence that follows is thick. Shock. Or maybe just respect.

I don't know. And I don't fucking care.

I reach across the table, shake Big Mike’s hand. Then Coach Brody’s. Then Blake’s.

And then I turn toward the door.

Head high. Heart full. Finally certain that for the first time in my life… I’m not chasing a puck.

I’m chasingher.

I slam my bag into the truck bed and yank the door open so hard it bounces back against my knee. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to her.

My hands shake as I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I'm already shifting into reverse, tires spitting gravel as I tear out of the arena parking lot.

Iron Ridge blurs past my window.

The diner where we had breakfast, the brewery from the festival, the corner where I first saw her fumbling with those coffee samples months ago.

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