Page 147 of Wicked Minds
“That’s… Wow,” is all I can think of to say as I watch the sweetest man I’ve ever met move from group to group, correcting stances and doling out advice.
Ava nudges my shoulder. “He’s a good one.”
“I know,” I tell her, unable to take my eyes off my man.
We observe from the sidelines for the next hour as Logan teaches the children. I barely blink as I watch him adapt his teaching style to each child, pushing while simultaneously encouraging and supporting them.
In the final half hour, they break into two teams—one side donning bright yellow bibs over their jerseys—and play a friendly game. Again, I notice how he evenly splits the teams, ensuring there are younger kids on each side. He places them in positions where they are away from the brunt of the action and less likely to get hurt while simultaneously shouting for the older kids to give the game their all.
I barely feel the cold around me, so captivated with seeing Logan in this role and occasionally fantasizing about him teaching Aurora how to skate and play hockey.FYI, the image has my ovaries nearly exploding.
I’m still gaping in shock at the ice when the session comes to an end. “Did you see me, Mommy?” Isabella yells as she comes running toward us with her skates still on.
“I did, baby. You were so good!” Ava sets her daughter on the bench beside us, undoing her skates and putting them away while Isabella regales us with everything that happened as if we weren’t watching every minute.
“Well, I’d better get her home,” Ava tells me when they’re packed up. “Girls’ night soon?”
“Definitely,” I agree, hugging her and saying goodbye to Isabella before they disappear. The other parents are in a hurry to get their kids home for bath and bedtime too, rushing out the door with thrown goodbyes and thank yous.
When we’re alone, Logan stalks toward me, his skates banging against the hard floor as he holds a second pair out for me.
“What do you say, Shortcake?”
I laugh, even as I stretch my hand out to accept the skates. “As long as you’re prepared to catch me. I’m fairly certain most of those kids can skate better than I can.”
He holds on to the skates even after I’ve grabbed them, and I glance up at him. “You fall; I fall, Shortcake.”
There’s so much meaning behind his words. It goes way beyond a simple skating session, and all I can do is gaze at him until he releases the skates and breaks eye contact. Then I bend to put them on and lace them up.
Clinging to Logan’s firm arm, I step onto the ice like a newborn foal testing its legs for the first time. Logan laughs as I flap my arms, my body twisting like a noodle as I struggle to maintain my balance.
“Shut up,” I laugh, hitting him pathetically in the chest. The move sends me off balance, and I waver, arms spinning until he grabs a hold of them, holding me upright and on my feet.
My fingers dig into the soft fabric of his Huskies hoodie as he slowly skates backward, and I allow him to lead me further out onto the ice. He looks so at home, moving in his skates as though they are merely extensions of his feet, and I can’t help but relax as I stare up into his languid smile, his features void of creases and furrows.
After we’ve circled the rink a few times, he loosens his grip but remains close as I skate on my own.
“You’re a natural,” he says, seconds before my blade hits a wedge on the ice and I nearly fall flat on my face. Logan’s fingers clasping the back of my jacket are the only thing that saves me from eating ice. “Maybe I said that a little too prematurely,” he mutters, making me laugh.
“Give me a sec. It’s been years since I was on the ice. Not all of us can so easily adapt to balancing on sharp blades attached to the bottom of our feet.”
He holds his hands up before he shoots past me, showing off now as he spins to face me, skating backward at a pace I wouldn’t dare test. The asshole proceeds to literally spin circles around me as I find my feet until I can skate confidently around the rink.
“Tell me about Hot Shot Huskies,” I prod after his latest adrenaline burst, which had him racing around the perimeter of the rink like the ice was melting beneath his feet. Slowing his pace, he matches my tortoise crawl. “How long have you been teaching them?”
He shrugs casually, but I notice a glint in his eye when I dare to glance his way. “Since freshman year. They’re a good group of kids. They all come from families who otherwise couldn’t afford for their children to learn to skate or play hockey. It’s an expensive sport...”
“… and this program covers the cost of their equipment,” I voice aloud what Ava told me. “Their skates, the jerseys they were wearing, their sticks.”
He nods. “And the lessons are free.”
I gape at him. “You donate your time?”
He gives another too-casual shrug. “Seems like the least I can do to give back.”
If possible, my heart swells with affection for this man who gives so much of himself and asks for nothing in return.
“I’m surprised Halston doesn’t advertise it more. Use programs like this for PR.”
