Page 99 of Defensive Desire

Chapter Twenty-Three

Emma

As I hand out the coffee, Logan moves among the kids with confidence, crouching down to their level, asking names, complimenting light-up sneakers and dinosaur t-shirts.

He's a natural and so far, this is all going perfectly.

"Are you really a hockey player?" one little girl asks, staring up at him with huge brown eyes.

"I am," Logan says seriously. "I play defense for the Icehawks."

"Do you fight people?"

Logan's lips twitch. "Sometimes. But only to protect my teammates."

"Like a superhero?"

"Exactly. Like a superhero."

I melt. Literally melt into a puddle of ovaries and romantic feelings right there on the arena floor.

Grandpa Walt steps forward, clapping his hands. "Alright, parents! Who wants a tour of the arena while these rascals gettheir story? We'll see the locker rooms, the press box, maybe even peek at the ice if we're lucky."

The parents perk up immediately. Nothing like behind-the-scenes access to get adults as excited as their kids.

This is all workingperfectly.

As they disappear with Grandpa Walt, I'm left with eight sugar-loaded children and Logan holding a copy of "The Hockey Sweater" like he's about to read the most important document in the world.

"Everyone find a spot on the blankets," I instruct. "Mr. Kane is going to read you a very special story. And the best listener, gets one of these!"

I hold up one of the signed kids jerseys, and the room erupts into high-pitched cheers and whoops. The tiny hockey fans bounce on their knees, eyes wide and fixed on the green-and-gray treasure dangling from my fingers.

"Is that real?" a freckled boy whispers, his voice filled with awe.

"It sure is," I say, turning the jersey to show off the signatures scrawled across the back. "Signed by every player on the Icehawks roster."

Logan clears his throat. "Including me."

This sends the kids into another frenzy. One little girl with pigtails actually falls backward from excitement, then scrambles up again, not wanting to miss a second.

"My daddy says you're the best fighter in the league!" a boy with a missing front tooth announces.

Logan's eyes find mine, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "I'm better at other things," he says, and something in his tone makes my stomach flip.

"Like reading stories," I add quickly, gesturing toward the book in his hands. "So everyone get cozy!"

The kids settle onto the plush blankets we've spread across the floor, their little bodies wiggling with anticipation. I tuck the jersey back onto our prize table and take a seat on the edge of the reading circle.

From here, I can watch both Logan and the children's faces.

Logan opens the book, his massive hands dwarfing the colorful cover. He clears his throat, and when he begins to read, his deep voice transforms into something gentler. Something that wraps around the room like a warm blanket.

"'The winters of my childhood were long, long seasons,'" he reads, the children go perfectly still, captured by his voice. "'We lived in three places—the school, the church, and the skating rink. But our real life was on the skating rink.'"

I watch him read, this mountain of a man who fights on ice for a living, now completely focused on entertaining eight children with a story about hockey and childhood.

The kids are mesmerized. So am I.

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