Page 85 of Wicked Minds
“Not typically. Logan usually goes out with the team after, and we meet him at home later. Occasionally, if he’s been badly injured or it’s been a brutal loss, we’ve met him back here, but that’s rare.”
I shudder at the notion of Logan injured. Ice hockey is a violent sport; you never know what could happen. Logan always seems so invincible on the ice, but at the end of the day, he’s only human. He bleeds just as easily as the rest of us.
I’m pulled from my dark thoughts by the faint murmur of sounds up ahead, and we halt as we round a corner and comeface-to-face with a straight-faced security guard. Behind him, further along the corridor, people are milling about everywhere, cameras flashing.
“You’re not allowed back here,” the security man states.
“We’re friends of Logan Astor,” Royce explains. “Royce King and Riley James. We’ll be on the list.”
Lowering his gaze to the clipboard in his hand, the security guard scans the list until he finds our names. With a curt nod, he points toward the first door down the hall. “Friends and family room is there.”
I give him a polite smile as Royce whisks me past and toward the room, pushing open the door and ushering me through. I’m immediately swamped in black and gold, the team’s colors boldly on display with flags, banners, and various other pieces of memorabilia adorning the walls.
There’s a plush couch pushed against one wall opposite a wall-mounted wide-screen TV, which is currently broadcasting highlights of tonight’s game. In the corner sits a well-stocked refreshments table. Other than that, the room is… empty.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, taking it all in.
“It’s a home game,” Royce explains. “Occasionally, when one of the team has had a girlfriend or whatever, or if family comes into town for a game, they’d be in here, but for the most part, they meet friends afterward. This area will get busier as we get closer to the Frozen Four.”
“Oh.”
It’s a whole other aspect to sports and Logan’s life that I hadn’t considered, and I’m suddenly hit with images of sitting in this room, anxiously awaiting Logan’s smiling face after some big NHL win. My gaze slides to Royce as he wanders over to the refreshments table. Yeah, I can picture him here too. The two of us buzzing with excitement as we impatiently await Logan’s arrival before going to celebrate. Together.
Because I won’t have to rush away after each game to go to work.
Because there’s nowhere Logan would rather be than celebrating every one of his victories with me… with us?
Is it too much to dream of such a reality? To hope for something so… mundane and ordinary, yet the farthest thing from either?
Before I can get too sucked into that faint glimmer of a possible future and pick it apart for issues, another door flies open, and Logan struts in, hair wet from his shower and the crisp scent of winter trailing after him.
His eyes go straight to me, not even looking to see if anyone else is present as he stalks my way, eating up the floor between us in three strides before his hands are on my thighs, wrenching my legs around his waist and lifting me off my feet before he presses me into the wall.
I think I hear Royce grumble something from somewhere nearby, but I can’t make it out over the roaring in my ears. Over the rapid pounding in my chest. Logan’s gaze eats me up like a lion starved, his voice guttural and flooded with emotion as he says, “You’re wearing my jersey.”
“Didn’t seem appropriate to wear anyone else’s,” I murmur, unable to look away from his eyes.
He snarls before snapping forward, teeth digging into my lower lip before soothing the ache with his tongue. “You’re wearing my jersey,” he repeats, the words a near growl. “You’re wearing my jersey, and all I can think about is taking that sweet-ass pussy of yours in it.”
I moan against his lips, feeling the evidence of his desire pressing against my core.
Burying his face in my hair, he murmurs for only me to hear, “I didn’t think you’d wear it.”
“Figured it was only fair since you’re wearing my name,” I reply just as quietly. I feel the warmth of his chuckle against my skin before he returns his lips to mine, and I lose myself in him.
“Yeah, that’s not fucking happening,” a voice infiltrates, and it takes far too many seconds for me to recognize it as Royce’s. Whipping my head around, I blink dazedly as I find him sitting on the sofa, munching on a bag of dried fruit as he watches us.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I try, pointlessly, to push Logan away. He refuses to budge, glaring at his best friend as his hands tighten around my upper thighs in a way that makes our crotches rub and sends skitters blasting through my nerves. It’s a struggle to hold back my moan.
“You’re welcome to leave,” he bites out.
Royce merely smirks. “No can do, buddy.” He jerks his chin at me. “I’m her ride.”
Ignoring their sniping, I say to Logan more breathily than I’d intended, “Congratulations. You played amazingly out there.”
Dismissing Royce, Logan’s attention snaps to mine, some of that intense hunger dulling as he smiles proudly. Leaning in, he nips at the sensitive skin of my neck. “Only because my lucky charm was there, wearing my fucking number.” He groans as though in pain, his eyes raking over said jersey. “Tell me I can see you tonight.”
I reluctantly shake my head. Between classes, his hockey schedule, and my work, we haven’t had a chance to hang out away from campus all week—other than our morning walks together when he brings me coffee. Until right now, I didn’t think it was a bad thing. When it comes to Logan, it is very easy to end up speeding a hundred miles an hour into a relationship, and having already done that and been burned badly, I have no desire to repeat it.
