Page 133 of Defensive Desire

At six-foot-five, he towers over them, yet somehow makes himself their size, crouching down to adjust a helmet strap, demonstrate a stick grip, praise a wobbly attempt at a goal.

It still gets me, seeing him like this.

The Iron Wall, the man who struck fear into opponents for over a decade, now radiating infinite patience as he guides a little girl who can barely stand on skates.

After retiring, Logan took exactly three months off before getting restless.

Now, between overseeing all construction and renovation for my expanding business and running his clinics, he's busier than ever—and happier than I've ever seen him.

He spots me in the stands and his whole face lights up, the same way it did five years ago, the same way it does every morning when we wake up together.

"Five minutes, guys!" he calls to the kids, skating over to where I'm sitting.

He leans across the boards, still slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed from exertion. "Hey, gorgeous."

I lean down for a kiss. "Hey yourself. How's my Hockey God?"

"Exhausted. You're early," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Couldn't wait to see my favorite coach in action." I gesture to the ice where Blake is now helping the kids pack up their gear. "How's the team captain doing with his new 'elder statesman' role?"

Logan chuckles. "Still faster than half the rookies. He's threatening to retire every season, but we all know he's got at least three more years in him."

"Unlike you," I tease. "You couldn't even make it one day without finding a new purpose."

His expression softens. "Best decision I ever made. I'll be done soon, then I'm taking you straight home."

"Sounds good to me. Now get out there." I lean over the boards and smack his ass, the sound making my core squeeze.

He gives me a playful bite through the air and skates back out on the ice.

Our home sits on the edge of town, a renovated cabin-style house with huge windows that frame the mountains like living art. Logan did most of the work himself, turning what was once a simple structure into our perfect sanctuary.

Inside, it's all us.

Warm wood and soft textures, bookshelves overflowing with my collection, a coffee station that rivals professional setups, and tasteful displays of Logan's hockey memorabilia interspersed with framed photos of our travels.

I curl up on our porch swing, watching Logan at the grill, the mountains glowing gold in the setting sun behind him.

This is our rhythm. Our life.

Chaotic mornings at Chapter & Grind, Logan at the arena in the afternoons, evenings together, just us.

Rinse and repeat.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Did you book the flights?" Logan asks, flipping steaks on the grill.

"All set for next month," I confirm. "Two weeks in Finland. Two in France. Just like last year."

We've made it an annual pilgrimage, visiting his mother's village, walking those shores, keeping our promise to honor her memory.

Last year, we finally found the cottage where she was born, now inhabited by a kind elderly couple who invited us in for coffee and pulla bread when Logan explained our connection.

The steaks sizzle as he plates them, and I breathe in the scent of home here in Iron Ridge. Pine trees, charcoal, and the lingering coffee aroma that somehow follows me everywhere.

"So… I have news," I say casually, wrapping my arms around him from behind.

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