His lips brush mine in a soft kiss before he gazes into my eyes, earnest, amazed. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he says in a husky voice. “All those girls who came over to us? I don’t even remember what they look like. I don’t remember half their names. You’re the only one I see tonight, the only one I see ever.” Those warm lips touch mine again, firm and reassuring. “PS? I never hooked up with Sandy.”
“Liar,” I grumble.
“It’s true.” He grins. “She plays for the other team.”
I narrow my eyes. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. She and her girlfriend came to a party at our place last semester and fooled around on the couch the entire time.”
“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“Nope. It’s true. Dean thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”
A laugh pops out. I find myself relaxing, my previously tense muscles now loose and tingly from the feel of his hard body pressed up against mine. God, I didn’t like feeling that way downstairs. Prickly and peeved, ready to fight any girl who so much as looked at Logan.
“But this is even hotter than watching Sandy and her girl make out all night.” A seductive note thickens his voice.
“What’s hotter?”
“You. Jealous.” Those blue eyes go molten hot. “I’ve never been with anyone who’s gotten all possessive over me. It turns me on.”
He’s not joking. His erection is poking into my belly, and the feel of it sends a streak of satisfaction through me. I move my hips, just enough for my pelvis to rub that hard ridge, and his eyelids grow heavy.
“That turns me on even more,” he mumbles.
I hide a smile. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Trust me, baby, you’re the only woman I want. The only one who gets me going.”
Raising my eyebrows, I reach up to lock my hands around his neck. “I don’t know… I’m still jealous. I think you might need to reassure me some more.”
Chuckling, he tips his head toward the door beside us. “Want me to make you come in the bathroom?” My thighs clench, noticeably, and he laughs again. “Is that a yes?”
“God, no.” I lean up to nibble on his neck. “It’s a hell yes.”
27
Logan
For the fourth time this week, I skate off the ice after practice wanting to pound my fist through a wall. The sheer lack of skill and common fucking sense I’m seeing from some of the other defensemen is appalling. I’m willing to cut the freshmen recruits some slack, but there’s no excuse for the way the juniors have played this week. Brodowski literally stood motionless in the defensive zone looking for someone to pass to, and Anderson lobbed pass after pass to covered forwards instead of cross-passing to me or carrying the puck so the forwards had time to get open.
The hinge plays we ran were a disaster. The freshmen skated in slow motion. The upperclassmen made stupid mistakes. It’s becoming painfully obvious that our roster is weak. So weak that the chances of making it to the post-season are looking slimmer and slimmer—and we haven’t even played our first game yet.
As I strip my gear in the locker room, I realize I’m not the only one who’s frustrated. Far too many surly faces surround me, and even Garrett is surprisingly silent. As team captain, he tries to offer encouragement after every practice, but he’s clearly starting to get discouraged by the dismal state of our team.
The only guy who’s actually smiling is the new kid Hunter, who received so much praise from Coach for his performance today that he’s going to be shitting out lollipops and kittens for weeks to come. I have no clue how Dean managed to convince the guy to join the team—all I know is that my buddy dragged Hunter to the bar one night after tryouts, and the next morning, the kid was on board. Must’ve been some night out.
“Logan.” Coach appears in front of me. “Come talk to me after your shower.”
Shit. I quickly search my brain for anything I could’ve done wrong on the ice, but I’m not being arrogant when I say I played well. Dean and I were the only ones even trying out there.
When I enter Coach’s office thirty minutes later, he’s at his desk, wearing a somber look that heightens my agitation. Fuck. Was it the dropped pass at the start of practice? No. Can’t be. Not even Gretzky himself could have held on to the puck with two hundred pounds of Mike Hollis ramming him into the boards.
“What’s up?” I sit down, trying not to reveal how rattled I am.