Page 8 of Defensive Desire

I don't do relationships, don't do feelings, don't do... whatever the hell this is. But here I am, volunteering to spend more time with her like some lovesick rookie.

Maybe I'm just as pathetic as the rest of these assholes?

All I know is that she's different.

Emma isn't like the puck bunnies who see the paycheck or the jersey. Not like the women who expect me to be someone else. To be whotheywant me to be.

Emma just... sees me.

And for some fucked-up reason, she doesn't run the other way whenever I approach.

"You know," Blake says quietly when the others have moved towards the gym. "It's okay to want something for yourself, Logan. Off the ice, on the ice. You count too."

I grunt in response.

I don't do heart-to-hearts. But as the only other guy on the team who grew up in Iron Ridge, of all the people here, Blakegetsit. Gets why this place matters. Why the people here matter.

"Just don't fuck it up," he adds with a smirk before heading out.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain.

Chapter Three

Logan

Chapter & Grind is quiet when I push through the door after practice. The scent of coffee and old books hits me immediately, oddly comforting for a guy who grew up in hockey rinks that smell like sweat and ice.

The familiar aroma reminds me of my mother, somehow.

Anja Kane was never without a mug in her hand—strong Finnish coffee, the kind that could strip paint. Growing up in the United States, we didn't have Finland's endless winter nights, but she kept the coffee-loving tradition alive anyway.

I push the memory away before it stings too much.

It's been five years since she passed. Since I missed her funeral because I was on the road with my first NHL team. too damn afraid to ask for the time off to mourn the woman who made all this possible.

My jaw tightens at the thought. There are just some things you don't forgive yourself for.

Emma is behind the counter, hair caught up in some messy knot thing, a pencil stuck through it. She's got flour on her cheek and a smudge of what looks like chocolate on her forearm. She's muttering to herself as she scribbles in a notebook.

Something in my chest loosens at the sight of her.

She turns to reach for a mug on the top shelf, her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of smooth skin above her jeans.

Christ.

I can't tear my eyes away from that exposed strip, my mind instantly imagining how it would feel under my fingertips, under my tongue.

When I finally drag my gaze up, she's watching me, those warm brown eyes darkening as she registers exactly what I was staring at.

She clears her throat, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she looks up at the sound of the bell.

"Logan? What are you—oh! The shelves. Right. I didn't think you'd come by so soon after the—"

"We're partners," I interrupt, walking toward the counter, fighting to keep my voice steady.

She blinks at me. "Excuse me?"

"The community outreach program Sophia's putting on. We're partners."

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