Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”

“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”

“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles. 

Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft. 

A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free. 

“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.

“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”

Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.

***

Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around. 

“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”

“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm. 

“Liar!” 

You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free. 

Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe. 

And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season. 

So here you are. 

You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric. 

Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd. 

***

Logan freezes halfway to the bar. 

He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying. 

He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers. 

“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself. 

He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat. 

You step back, and Logan steps in. 

***

You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips. 

Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble. 

“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing. 

“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”

“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. 

“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”

You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”

“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”

“It’s a bold strategy.”

“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”

“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”

“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them. 

“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”

“Balance?”

“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”

“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays. 

“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”

“Puck,” you say. 

Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.” 

He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together. 

“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him. 

“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly. 

“Prove it,” you challenge. 

Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress. 

The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips. 

“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”

You don’t need to be told twice. 

He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency. 

Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock. 

He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack. 

The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you. 

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall. 

“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you. 

He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck. 

“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly. 

“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours. 

“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”

“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours. 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned. 

The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening. 

You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have. 

“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently. 

Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core. 

He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone. 

“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need. 

Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth. 

He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm. 

Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged. 

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch. 

“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame. 

“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest. 

“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back. 

“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”

His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle. 

Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are. 

Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support. 

He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair. 

“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”

“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”

You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy. 

“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”

You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea. 

“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door. 

Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”

“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile. 

Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole. 

Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. 

“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”

***

The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black. 

Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend. 

“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”

Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”

“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”

“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”

Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”

“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”

Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games. 

The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle. 

Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny. 

The referee drops the puck. 

You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion. 

“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”

“Told you,” Garrett says smugly. 

Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net. 

The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass. 

“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”

“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’. 

“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns. 

“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”

“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”

“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs. 

For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing. 

But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey. 

By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”

The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room. 

“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”

“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”

“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests. 

Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”

“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. 

Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”

They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath. 

***

You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest. 

You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here. 

You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does. 

“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face. 

You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair. 

“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”

“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight. 

In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates. 

“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”

“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”

“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”

You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about. 

“Hey, it’s nice to-” 

The words die in your throat. 

Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy. 

The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars. 

The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis. 

***

Logan freezes. 

Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. 

He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own. 

*No. No, no, no.*

The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep. 

It’s you. 

It’s Garrett’s little sister. 

Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick. 

“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”

Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers. 

“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”

***

“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word. 

John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world. 

You slept with him.

You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ... 

“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”

“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”

“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”

“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”

“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”

“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender. 

You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. 

“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”

“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him. 

“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”

“Awesome,” Garrett beams. “Logan, you’re driving.”

“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett. 

“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”

“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”

“I know,” you say softly. 

The words slip out before you can stop them. 

The hallway goes completely silent. 

Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic. 

“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”

Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”

Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind. 

You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight. 

When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps. 

“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door. 

“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”

“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”

The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture. 

“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”

You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one. 

You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin. 

Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. 

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom. 

“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”

Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room. 

His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club. 

“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you. 

You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat. 

“Ready,” you whisper back. 

Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.

***

The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head. 

The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room. 

“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl. 

It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight. 

Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you. 

Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door. 

“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove. 

Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table. 

You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks. 

The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”

“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”

“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs. 

“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile. 

“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”

Logan swallows. Hard. 

“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away. 

“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”

“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”

“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”

Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell. 

You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door. 

Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.

“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”

You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”

“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”

“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”

“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”

“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”

Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up. 

“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”

Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game. 

“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”

Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.

“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”

“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you. 

Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream. 

“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away. 

“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass. 

Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw. 

You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth. 

You dart your tongue out and lick it away. 

Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working. 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster. 

He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands. 

“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”

You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake. 

Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”

“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake. 

“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”

You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration. 

I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language. 

Under the table, it’s a different story. 

The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans. 

He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks. 

You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull. 

It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb. 

“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”

“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag. 

“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”

You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”

Logan stares at him. “What?”

“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”

You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket. 

“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys. 

Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”

“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”

Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”

You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”

“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”

The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly. 

Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her. 

“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”

You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number. 

Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”

“Always,” Tucker agrees. 

Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”

Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact. 

Y/N Graham.

“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes. 

“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”

“Understood,” Dean says solemnly. 

“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods. 

Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits. 

“Logan?” Garrett prompts. 

Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly. 

“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”

“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”

They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second. 

As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says. 

Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker. 

He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain. 

He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister. 

He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop. 

Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air. 

I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.

He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett. 

Fuck his life.

***

The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits. 

You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park. 

For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”

You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold. 

You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name. 

The line rings once. Twice. Three times. 

“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”

“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice. 

You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle. 

Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.

You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline. 

You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car. 

But then your thumb stops on the last name. 

John Logan.

A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom. 

You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space. 

But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button. 

It rings twice. 

“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core. 

“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”

There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed. 

“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”

“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”

“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache. 

“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”

“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you whisper. 

“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”

The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.

***

True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic. 

You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you. 

“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass. 

You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”

Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop. 

“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck. 

You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery. 

“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”

“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering. 

Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block. 

“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”

“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out. 

Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”

He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder. 

You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents. 

You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you. 

You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. 

“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next. 

You step directly into his space. 

“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his. 

It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain. 

Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks. 

His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue. 

The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips. 

Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before. 

But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you. 

Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes. 

“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart. 

“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”

“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”

Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”

“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”

You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go. 

He doesn’t move an inch. 

Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips. 

“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”

“Logan ...”

“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”

The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man. 

“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips. 

“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender. 

“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”

You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes. 

“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm. 

Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat. 

He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut. 

The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front. 

Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards. 

“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you. 

The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved. 

Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely. 

“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair. 

Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat. 

“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. 

“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat. 

He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up. 

Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust. 

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. 

“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”

You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need. 

You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach. 

“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. 

“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. 

Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside. 

When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest. 

He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark. 

You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready. 

You nod, lifting your hips to meet him. 

Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust. 

A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better. 

Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips. 

He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly. 

You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper. 

The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat. 

You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”

“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously. 

For a long time, neither of you moves. 

Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation. 

Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck. 

Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle. 

“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror. 

You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”

“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”

Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms. 

“Me too,” you whisper. 

Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”

“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress. 

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”

The locations expand. The cramped, freezing backseat of your Toyota Corolla. The spacious, cologne-scented cab of his pickup. Your dorm room at Northeastern, whenever your roommate is conveniently away visiting family or out partying. Everywhere and anywhere you can find a locked door and ten minutes of privacy. 

The only boundary, the one strict, unspoken rule you both adhere to, is the off-campus house Logan shares with Garrett, Dean, and Tucker. That is enemy territory. That is a step too far. 

Tonight, however, you have home-ice advantage. 

Briar just crushed their out-of-state rivals, and Logan played out of his mind, netting two gorgeous top-shelf goals. He arrived at your dorm an hour later, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, smelling of body wash and the crisp winter air. 

Now, the adrenaline has bled out of him, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion in its wake. 

You are lying tangled in the sheets of your twin-sized dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on Logan’s bare chest. The room is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Logan’s hand rests on your bare hip, his thumb slowly tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your skin. His heart is beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your ear. 

It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes it dangerously easy to let your guard down. 

“You were incredible tonight,” you murmur into the warm skin of his chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his heart. 

Logan chuckles, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “I had decent puck luck. And the defense was practically handing me the neutral zone. But thank you. I aim to please.”

“I’m serious,” you say, shifting slightly, pulling yourself up on your elbows so you can look down at his face. His dark hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo against your white pillow. His sharp jawline is relaxed, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “I looked at your stats.”

Logan’s thumb stops moving on your hip. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightens the muscles of his stomach beneath you. “My stats?”

“Your draft year stats,” you clarify, your voice quiet but firm. “Logan, you scored seventy-eight points that season. Your plus-minus was off the charts. You were easily a second-round pick. Maybe third, at worst.”

“Stats don’t mean everything,” Logan deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to distract you. “NBD. No Big Deal.”

“Don’t do the acronym thing,” you warn gently, catching his wrist and pressing his hand flat against the mattress. “Even if you pulled your name from the draft, why hasn’t an NHL team snapped you up as an undrafted free agent? They do it all the time. Guys with half your talent get signed. But you haven’t even gone to a development camp.”

Logan stares up at you, the easy, charming facade completely stripping away, leaving behind a raw, tired vulnerability that breaks your heart. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light. 

“Because I can’t,” he says simply. 

“Why not?”

Logan sighs, a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of the entire world. He shifts, pulling you down slightly so he can wrap both arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair for a moment before he speaks. 

“My dad was supposed to run the family business,” Logan begins, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the dark room. “Logan & Sons. It’s a mechanic shop back home. Been in the family for three generations. But my dad ... he’s not exactly reliable.”

“Garrett said he has a drinking problem,” you offer softly. 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Logan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “He’s a fall-down, blackout drunk. Has been since I was a kid. When I got the scholarship to Briar, everything was falling apart. The shop was going bankrupt. My dad was completely useless. I was going to turn the scholarship down. Stay home. Run the shop.”

You feel a sharp ache in your chest. You look at this guy — this funny, sarcastic, wildly talented guy — and realize just how much he’s been carrying underneath the jokes. 

“But you didn’t,” you say. 

“No,” Logan shakes his head against the pillow. “My older brother, Jeff, stepped in. He had a great job, a life he was building, but he quit. He moved back home to run the shop and keep an eye on the old man so I could come to Briar.”

Logan pauses, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “We made a deal. Jeff puts his life on hold for four years so I can play college hockey and get a degree. But the second I graduate? We swap. I go back, take over the shop, take care of our dad, and Jeff gets his life back. He gets to go free.”

The silence in the dorm room is deafening. You stare at him, processing the sheer magnitude of the sacrifice he’s making. He is willingly walking away from a multi-million dollar NHL career, from a dream he is actively living, out of a misplaced sense of duty. 

“Logan ...” you breathe out, the injustice of it making your blood boil. 

“It is what it is,” Logan says, offering you a tight, forced smile. “It’s fair. Jeff sacrificed for me, I sacrifice for him. End of story.”

“No,” you say, your voice suddenly hard. You push yourself entirely out of his arms, sitting back on your heels near his waist. The sheet pools around your hips, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room, but you don’t care. 

Logan frowns, reaching a hand out toward you. “Y/N-”

“No, Logan, listen to me,” you interrupt, leaning over him, your eyes blazing. “You do not owe that man your life.”

Logan flinches slightly, dropping his hand. “He’s my dad.”

“I know exactly what it’s like to have a monster for a father,” you say, your voice trembling with a fierce, protective anger. “You know what my dad was. You know what he did to me, to Garrett, to our mom. Being a father is a biological fact, not a lifelong debt.”

Logan stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s not just him. It’s the shop. It’s Jeff.”

“So sell the shop!” You practically shout, mindful at the last second to keep your voice down so you don’t wake the RA next door. You lower your volume, leaning closer, your hands pressing flat against his chest. “Sell it. Let it burn to the ground. Take the NHL contract, take the signing bonus, and give half of it to Jeff to start whatever business he wants. Why do you have to go back to a dead-end town to run a failing shop for a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about either of you?”

Logan looks entirely taken aback. His eyes are wide, searching your face as if he’s looking for the punchline, but you are deadly serious. 

“It’s family legacy,” Logan murmurs weakly, though the conviction in his voice is entirely gone. 

“It’s an anchor,” you correct him fiercely. “Logan, you are brilliant on the ice. You are a star. You deserve to see that become a reality. You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep your father warm.”

Logan closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through his large frame. He brings a hand up to drag over his face, completely overwhelmed. He’s spent the last three years perfectly resigned to his fate, perfectly compartmentalizing his impending doom, and you have just ripped the walls completely down. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I gave my word.”

“You made a bad deal,” you counter, softening your tone. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to screw your brother over. I’m saying you have other options. Better options. You just have to be brave enough to take them.”

Logan opens his eyes, looking up at you. The raw, desperate affection in his gaze makes your breath hitch. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s why I’m a good center,” you smile softly. “I don’t let the play die.”

“I’ll ...” Logan swallows hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I can’t promise anything else right now, but I will think about it.”

“Promise me you’ll actually think about it,” you demand, holding his gaze. “Promise you won’t just bury this the second you leave this room.”

“I promise,” Logan says, and you can hear the sincerity ringing crystal clear in his deep voice. 

The heavy, emotional tension in the air hangs between you for a moment longer. You look down at him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the faint, silver scars scattered across his collarbone from years of taking hits on the ice. He is so incredibly strong, yet he’s letting himself be completely vulnerable with you. 

A fierce, possessive kind of affection swells in your chest. You want to take all the heavy burdens he’s carrying and completely erase them, even if it’s just for the rest of the night. You want to remind him exactly how good it feels to just exist in his own body, entirely for himself. 

“Good,” you whisper, a slow, wicked smile curving onto your lips. 

You slowly slide backward. 

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as your knees drag down the sides of his hips. You catch the edge of the white duvet cover and pull it up over your head, plunging yourself into the warm, dark cocoon of the bed, right between his legs. 

“Y/N,” Logan gasps, his hands instantly dropping to his sides, his fingers gripping the fitted sheet. 

You ignore him, crawling further down. The heat radiating off his skin under the heavy duvet is intoxicating, mixing with his masculine scent. You settle between his thighs, the muscles in his legs instantly tensing against your ribs. 

You reach out, your hands flattening against his lower stomach, feeling the sharp, defined ridges of his abs clenching under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along his hip bones, taking your time, letting your lips drag against his sensitive skin. 

Logan lets out a ragged, trembling exhale above the covers. The mattress shifts as he tilts his hips up into your touch, completely at your mercy. 

You trail your hands lower, your fingers wrapping around his thick, heavy length. The second your skin makes contact with him, Logan lets out a choked, desperate curse. 

You lean down, flicking your tongue out to taste the salty, musky skin at the tip before taking him completely into your mouth. 

The sound Logan makes is a guttural, wounded moan that vibrates straight through the mattress. You hear the rustle of the sheets above you as his hands completely let go of the bed, diving under the covers to find you. His large, calloused fingers tangle instantly into your hair, gripping the strands tightly, though he doesn’t push you down. He just holds on like he’s drowning and you are the only lifeline he has left. 

You set a slow, torturous pace. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a deep, deliberate suction that makes his hips snap upward involuntarily. 

“Holy fuck,” Logan breathes out, his voice cracking entirely. “Y/N. Sweetheart.”

You slide your hands down to cup his heavy, warm base, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there while you take him deeper into your mouth. You love the contrast of this. Out in the real world, Logan is the untouchable hockey star, the guy with the easy grin who deflects everything, the guy who carries the weight of his family’s failure on his broad shoulders. 

But right here, hiding under the sheets of your dorm bed, he is completely unraveling. 

You increase your pace, your mouth working rhythmically, creating a tight, wet friction that is driving him completely insane. You can feel the rapid, frantic pulse beating against your tongue. You drag your teeth lightly — just enough to tease — against the underside of his shaft, and Logan’s entire body violently arches off the mattress. 

“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he begs, his grip in your hair tightening almost painfully as his hips begin to thrust up to meet your mouth. 

He is losing whatever control he had left, his movements becoming erratic and desperate. You accommodate him perfectly, swallowing his harsh, rhythmic thrusts, letting him set the pace as he chases the high. The musky, intoxicating taste of him fills your mouth, the heat under the covers becoming stifling, thick with the scent of sex and sweat. 

“Look at me,” Logan commands suddenly, his voice a harsh, breathless rasp. 

He tugs firmly on your hair, pulling the duvet down just enough so you can see his face. 

The sight of him makes your own core throb with a sharp, answering heat. Logan’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his neck arched in absolute agony. His chest is heaving, completely slick with sweat, every single muscle locked tight. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so completely that his irises are barely visible in the dim light. 

He looks down at you, watching your mouth slide over him, and a dark, primal sound rips from his throat. 

“You are going to kill me,” he groans, his hips snapping upward with a brutal, punishing force. 

“Let me,” you dare him, your words muffled against his skin. You drop your head back down, taking him as deep as you possibly can, swallowing his moan entirely. 

Logan shatters. 

His body goes completely rigid, a massive shudder wracking his large frame. He cries out your name, a loud, broken sound that completely fills the small dorm room. He holds you tightly in place, his hips pinned upward as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashes through him. 

You continue to use a gentle suction, milking every last drop of his climax, swallowing him completely. He tastes salty and rich, an incredibly intimate reward for completely breaking down his walls. 

Slowly, the violent tremors wracking his body begin to subside. His hips drop back down against the mattress heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps for air. 

You pull back slowly, licking your lips, before crawling back up his body. 

Logan’s eyes are closed, a look of utter devastation and absolute peace painted across his handsome features. As you settle back onto his chest, he wraps his arms around you instantly, crushing you against his sweaty skin with a desperate, terrifying strength. 

He presses a fierce, bruising kiss to the top of your head, burying his face in your hair. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Logan whispers, his voice still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax. “But I swear to God, Y/N, I am never letting you go.”

You wrap your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly, ignoring the lingering threat of Garrett, the complicated mess of his family, and the terrifying reality that you are falling entirely, deeply in love with your brother’s best friend. 

“Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

***

You are officially a terrible person, a liar, and a fraud. But as Logan drags his open mouth down the sensitive column of your neck, you decide you really, truly do not care. 

It has been exactly three months and twelve days since that rainy night in Logan’s truck. Three months of sneaking around, of perfectly timed lies, of stolen glances across crowded rooms while Garrett remained blissfully unaware. You’ve mastered the art of the secret relationship. 

Tonight’s masterpiece? Faking a debilitating stomach bug. 

Your roommate had looked at you with deep pity before heading out to dinner. You coughed weakly, clutching your stomach, and promised her you’d just sleep it off. The second the door clicked shut behind her, you were texting Logan. Ten minutes later, he was slipping through your door, locking it behind him, and dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy, hungry look in his eyes. 

Now, the dorm room is suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the heavy scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and sex. The blinds are drawn tight, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner. 

Logan is a heavy, solid weight pressing you deep into your mattress. He’s completely bare, his broad, violently muscled chest slick with a sheen of sweat. You are tangled beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him as close as physically possible. 

“You’re beautiful,” Logan rasps, his voice a dark, jagged sound that vibrates against your collarbone. 

“Stop talking,” you manage to gasp out, your hands sliding up the slick, hot skin of his back to grip his broad shoulders. “Just please, Logan.”

Logan chuckles against your skin, a rough, devastating sound. He shifts his weight, rising up slightly on his forearms to look down at you. His dark hair is completely disheveled, hanging in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of his irises entirely. The raw, predatory hunger in his gaze makes your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

He aligns himself perfectly, his hips cradled securely between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth, devastating push, he sinks completely inside you. 

You cry out, the sound muffled entirely by Logan’s mouth as he swoops down to capture your lips. The kiss is deep and frantic, his tongue mimicking the slow, agonizing stretch of his body filling yours. You are stretched so perfectly, filled so completely, that a violent shiver wracks your entire frame. 

He is quite literally balls-deep, the heavy slap of his hips meeting yours echoing sharply in the quiet room. 

“God, Y/N,” Logan groans into your mouth, tearing his lips away to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He begins to move. 

The pace he sets is punishing. There is no slow buildup tonight, no teasing restraint. It is raw, desperate, and entirely unhinged. Every thrust is impossibly deep, drawing a high, breathy moan from your throat that you can’t even try to suppress. Your nails drag down his back, leaving faint, pink crescent moons in his skin. 

The mattress squeaks rhythmically under the violent force of his movements. Logan’s hands find your hips, his large, calloused fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to the bed as he dominates the space. 

“Logan,” you sob, throwing your head back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m going to-”

“I know, sweetheart,” he grunts, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic as his own control begins to snap. “Come on. Let it go.”

You are completely lost to the storm. The tight, spiraling coil of heat in your lower stomach is pulling tighter and tighter with every heavy slide of his body. You arch up to meet him, matching his desperate, punishing rhythm. You are seconds away from shattering. Logan is right there with you, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body going rigid as he prepares to find his release. 

And then, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of your dorm door echoes like a gunshot. 

The heavy deadbolt clicks. 

The door swings open. 

“Hey, kiddo, Cammi told me you were dying, so I brought-”

Garrett’s voice fills the room. 

Everything happens in a fraction of a millisecond. 

Logan freezes entirely, his body locking up mid-thrust, still buried impossibly deep inside you. You freeze beneath him, your eyes snapping open in absolute, paralyzing horror. 

Garrett stops dead in the doorway. 

The plastic grocery bag in his hand — heavy with chicken noodle soup, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and a box of Saltines — slips from his fingers. It hits the linoleum floor with a sickening, wet crash. The plastic container of soup bursts open, sending hot broth splashing across the floorboards. The ginger ale bottle rolls lazily toward the edge of the rug. 

For a single, agonizing second, the universe completely stops spinning. 

Garrett is staring at the bed. At his best friend. At his baby sister. Tangled together in a mess of bare skin and heavy breathing. 

The color drains entirely from Garrett’s face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. And then, the shock violently transforms into pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. His face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin. 

“What the fuck?” Garrett roars, the sound shaking the very walls of the dorm room. 

Chaos erupts. 

Logan violently scrambles backward, pulling out of you so fast you gasp. He practically falls off the side of the narrow bed, desperately grabbing for his discarded sweatpants on the floor. 

You scramble backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the thin white duvet up over your bare chest, your hands trembling so violently you can barely grip the fabric. 

“Garrett!” You scream, your voice cracking with sheer panic. 

But Garrett isn’t looking at you. He is looking at Logan. 

With a guttural, animalistic snarl, Garrett lunges across the room. He clears the distance in two massive strides, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. Logan is only halfway into his sweatpants, entirely off-balance, when Garrett grabs him by the throat and slams him brutally against the cinderblock wall. 

“Garrett, no!” You shriek, scrambling out from under the covers. 

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Garrett bellows, drawing his right fist back, preparing to shatter Logan’s jaw into a thousand pieces. 

Logan doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stands there, pinned against the wall, taking it. He looks entirely resigned to his fate, his eyes locked onto Garrett’s furious face. 

You don’t think. You just move. 

You launch yourself off the bed, entirely uncaring that you are wearing nothing but a frantically grabbed bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around your body. You throw yourself directly between them, pressing your back flush against Logan’s chest and throwing your hands up to shove hard against Garrett’s shoulders. 

“Stop it! Get away from him!” You scream, your voice tearing painfully at your throat. 

Garrett’s fist stops mere inches from your face. 

He freezes, staring down at you. His chest is heaving violently, his eyes completely wild. He looks down at your bare shoulders, at the white sheet clutched desperately to your chest, and then over your shoulder at Logan’s pale, terrified face. 

The raw, physical betrayal hitting Garrett is palpable. It’s like watching a building collapse in real-time. He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been burned. 

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the rage from a second ago. Now, it just sounds broken. “What ... what is this?”

You swallow a massive lump of panic, tears springing to your eyes. “Garrett, please. Just give us a second. Let us put some clothes on. Please.”

Garrett looks between the two of you, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding together. He looks nauseated. He takes another step back, kicking the empty ginger ale bottle out of his way. 

“Two minutes,” Garrett bites out, his voice a terrifying, deadpan monotone. “You have two minutes. And then I am coming back in here, and if you lie to me, Logan, I am going to end your fucking life.”

Garrett turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges. 

The silence he leaves behind is suffocating. 

You let out a harsh, jagged sob, dropping your face into your hands. Your knees finally give out, and you slump down onto the edge of the mattress. 

Logan is beside you in an instant. He pulls his sweatpants up, tying the drawstring with shaking fingers, before grabbing an oversized hoodie from the floor and pulling it over your head. He helps you guide your arms through the sleeves, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sheer panic radiating off him in waves. 

“Hey,” Logan whispers, crouching down in front of you, gripping your knees. His face is pale, a faint red mark forming on his throat where Garrett grabbed him. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”

You drop your hands, looking at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “He hates me. He hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Logan says fiercely, though his own voice is shaking. “He’s shocked. He has every right to be pissed. I broke the one rule he gave me.”

“We both broke it,” you sniffle, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from your dresser and hastily pulling them on. 

Logan stands up, running both hands through his messy hair, pacing the small stretch of floor. He grabs his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “I’m not going to let him blame you. This is on me. I’m the older guy, I’m his best friend. I should have ...” 

Logan cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sorry. I can’t even lie and say I regret it.”

You look up at him, your heart aching. “Me neither.”

The door handle rattles angrily. 

“Time’s up,” Garrett’s voice barks from the hallway. 

“Come in,” Logan says, squaring his broad shoulders, stepping deliberately in front of you as if to shield you from the blast zone. 

Garrett walks back into the room. He pointedly ignores the puddle of spilled soup on the floor. He looks at Logan, and the utter disdain in his eyes makes you flinch. Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the closed door. 

“Talk,” Garrett demands. “And it better be the absolute, unvarnished truth.”

Logan exhales slowly. “It didn’t start the way you think it did, G.”

“Oh, really?” Garrett spits, his tone dripping with venom. “How did it start, Logan? Did you slip into her DMs? Did you corner her after a game? Did you look at the one person in this world I told you to protect and decide you wanted to screw her instead?”

“Garrett, stop,” you say sharply, stepping out from behind Logan. You refuse to let Logan take the entire firing squad alone. “He didn’t do any of that.”

Garrett’s eyes snap to you, the betrayal flaring up again. “Then how, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend has been sleeping with my baby sister behind my back for God knows how long.”

“Since the first night of the season,” you say quietly. 

Garrett’s brow furrows in confusion. “What? The first night ... you went out with your team.”

“Exactly,” Logan interjects, his voice calm, trying to de-escalate the vibrating tension in the room. “We were both there. I walked away from the guys to get a drink. I saw a girl on the dance floor. I went up to her. We ... we hooked up.”

Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. “In the club?”

“In the bathroom,” you clarify, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck, but you refuse to break eye contact with your brother. “We didn’t know who each other was, Garrett. It was dark. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t talk about schools. It was just a random hookup.”

“A random hookup,” Garrett repeats, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looks at Logan. “You didn’t know it was her?”

“I swear to God on my life, G, I had absolutely no idea,” Logan says fiercely, stepping forward, his hands held out pleadingly. “If I had known, I never would have touched her. You know me.”

“Do I?” Garrett laughs bitterly. “Because if that’s true, when did you figure it out? The diner?”

“Yes,” you answer for him. “Outside your locker room, when you introduced us. That was the first time we realized.”

Garrett stares at you both, processing the timeline. The anger in his eyes slowly, painfully shifts into a deep, profound hurt. “So, at the diner ... when I sat there, pouring my heart out to you guys. When I begged you, Logan, to treat her like a sister. To protect her. You sat there, looking me dead in the eye, having already fucked her. And you promised me.”

Logan physically recoils as if Garrett just punched him in the gut. He closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through him. “I know. I know, G. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I felt like absolute scum.”

“You are scum,” Garrett snaps. 

“Garrett, that’s not fair,” you plead, taking a step toward your brother. “We tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn’t. It just ... it happened. And it kept happening. It’s not just a physical thing anymore. I care about him. A lot.”

Garrett looks at you, his protective instincts warring violently with his sense of betrayal. He sees the absolute sincerity in your eyes. He sees the way you stepped in front of Logan’s body to protect him from the punch. You aren’t just some puck bunny Logan is using. You’re in deep. 

Garrett drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He looks at Logan, who is standing completely still, waiting for the verdict. 

“How long?” Garrett asks, his voice entirely drained. “How long has it kept happening?”

“Since the night her car broke down,” Logan answers quietly. “Three months.”

“Three months,” Garrett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to my face for three months. Sitting in our living room, drinking my beers, playing video games, pretending nothing was going on.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Logan says earnestly. “I brought it up a hundred times, but we knew how you’d react. We knew you’d lose your mind. I didn’t want to ruin the team. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says coldly. “You managed to do both.”

“Garrett, please,” you beg, tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t cut him off. Don’t cut me off.”

Garrett looks at you, seeing the tears, and his harsh exterior finally cracks. He has spent his entire life trying to protect you from getting hurt, from crying. The fact that he is the one causing it right now, even if he feels justified, breaks him. 

He walks over to you, wrapping his large arms around you and pulling you into a tight, suffocating hug. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Garrett rests his chin on the top of your head, glaring dagger at Logan over your shoulder. 

“I’m not cutting you off, kiddo,” Garrett whispers into your hair. “I could never cut you off. You’re my sister.”

He pulls back slightly, keeping his hands firmly planted on your shoulders. He turns his head to look directly at Logan. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts from a broken family to a deadly serious warning. 

“But you,” Garrett points a thick, accusatory finger at Logan. “Sit down.”

Logan immediately drops into the desk chair in the corner of the room, looking up at Garrett with wide, cautious eyes. 

“You listen to me, John Logan, and you listen to me very carefully,” Garrett begins, his voice low, deadly, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. This is the captain speaking. This is the fiercely protective older brother who survived a monster. 

Logan nods tightly. “I’m listening.”

“You and I are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about trust and friendship later,” Garrett says, his eyes boring into Logan’s. “But right now, we are talking about her.”

Garrett points to you. “You know what we went through. You know the hell our father put us through. You know how hard it is for her to trust guys, how hard it is for her to let anyone in.”

“I know,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting to you, softening entirely. 

“I don’t give a shit about your daddy issues. I don’t give a shit about your family mechanic shop, or the deal you made with your brother, or how much you hate yourself for giving up the NHL,” Garrett continues, ruthlessly utilizing the deepest, darkest secrets Logan had confided in him over the years. Logan flinches at the casual weaponry of his secrets, but he takes it. 

“If you make her your emotional punching bag,” Garrett snarls, taking a step closer to Logan, looming over the desk chair. “If you use her to escape your own miserable reality, and then you drop her when things get too hard ... I will not just punch you.”

Garrett leans down, his face inches from Logan’s. “I will systematically destroy your life. I will break both your legs so you can never step foot on the ice again. I will make sure you wish you had never met me. Do you understand?”

The room is completely silent, save for the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner. 

Logan doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. The cocky, charming boy from the Briar team is completely gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly what it costs. 

“I understand,” Logan says, his voice steady, entirely lacking the fear Garrett was trying to instill. He looks up at his best friend. “But you’re wrong about one thing, G.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Oh?”

“I’m not using her to escape,” Logan says fiercely, standing up from the chair. He is an inch taller than Garrett, and right now, he uses every bit of that height to stand his ground. “She is the only real thing in my life. I love her, Garrett.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You gasp, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. He has never said that to you. Not in the dark of his truck, not in the quiet of his bed. He chose to say it here, to your brother, facing down a firing squad. 

Garrett stares at Logan, completely stunned. The anger deflates entirely, leaving him disarmed. He looks at Logan’s resolute face, then looks over at you, seeing the absolute awe and adoration radiating from your tear-stained eyes. 

Garrett sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly incredibly exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Logan.”

“I know,” Logan agrees softly. 

“And you,” Garrett points at you, though there is no heat behind it anymore. “You’re grounded.”

“I’m in college, Garrett,” you laugh, a wet, watery sound. “You can’t ground me.”

“Watch me,” Garrett mutters. He looks at the spilled soup on the floor, the puddle of chicken broth soaking into the cheap dorm rug. He groans. “I bought that soup for nothing. You aren’t even sick.”

“I have a slight headache,” you offer weakly. 

Garrett rolls his eyes. He looks at Logan one last time, offering a slow, reluctant nod. It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it is an acceptance of the reality. 

“Clean up this mess,” Garrett orders Logan. “And then get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least forty-eight hours.”

“Got it, Cap,” Logan says, the relief in his voice palpable. 

Garrett walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks back at you, a small, tired smile on his face. “Call me tomorrow. We are having lunch. In public. Where everyone can see your hands.”

“Okay,” you nod. 

Garrett leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The silence returns, but the suffocating tension is completely gone. Logan stares at the closed door for a long second before his knees practically give out. He leans heavily against the desk, letting out a massive, shaky breath, dragging his hands down his face. 

You walk over to him slowly. You reach out, wrapping your arms around his waist from the front, resting your cheek against his chest. His heart is still racing. 

Logan immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it aches. 

“You love me?” You whisper against his skin, the words feeling incredibly fragile. 

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, filled with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. 

“I love you,” Logan says, his voice completely clear. “More than hockey. More than anything. NFD.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “No Freaking Doubt.”

“Exactly,” Logan smiles, the familiar, charming smirk finally returning to his handsome face. He looks over your shoulder at the massive puddle of chicken soup on the floor. He sighs. “Now, where do you keep the paper towels?”

***

The roar of the crowd inside the TD Garden is a living, breathing entity. It vibrates through the concrete floors, rattling the expensive plastic of the seats in the lower bowl, and humming straight into your bones. 

“I’m just saying,” Dean shouts, leaning over Tucker to make himself heard over the deafening noise of the arena. “That jersey is a literal crime against the sport of hockey. If the purists see you, they will drag you out of here and burn you at the stake.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” you shout back, smoothing your hands over the front of the heavy fabric. 

You are wearing a custom-stitched abomination. The left half is a black and gold Boston Bruins jersey with GRA and the number 4 across the back. The right half is stitched directly down the middle, featuring GAN and the number 2. It is incredibly ugly, utterly confusing to the casual fan, and the most prized possession in your entire closet. 

Tucker adjusts his glasses, looking at the jagged seam running down your spine. “It’s structurally unsound, Y/N. The tensile strength of that thread is fighting a losing battle against the heavy-weight polyester.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” you laugh, your eyes completely glued to the ice. “Just watch the game.”

It is the final game of the regular NHL season. The Bruins have already clinched their playoff spot and secured the top seed in their division. In a brilliant, strategic move to rest their battered veterans before the grueling post-season begins, the coaching staff called up their newest, youngest prospects to fill out the roster for the night. 

To let the young guns show exactly what they can do. 

Down on the ice, the game is tied 2-2 against the Panthers in the third period. And right in the middle of the offensive zone, weaving through professional, fully-grown NHL defensemen like they are training cones, is Logan. 

Your chest swells with an overwhelming, suffocating amount of pride. 

The last twelve months have been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, triumph, and sheer, stubborn willpower. You hadn’t let Logan back down that night in your dorm room. You forced him to see his own worth, and slowly, painfully, he had unraveled the heavy chains of his father’s legacy. 

He had driven back home with Garrett for backup. He and his older brother had sat down and finally, honestly talked. They sold Logan & Sons to a commercial developer who wanted the land. It wasn’t a fortune, but Logan aggressively fought for Jeff to keep every single dime of the meager profit so he could start his own life. The hardest part had been their father, but with the money from the sale, they finally checked the old man into a long-term, specialized rehab facility. 

For the first time in his entire life, Logan was free. 

And he played like it. Free of the crushing weight of his future, Logan had absolutely dominated his senior year at Briar. He and Garrett had led the team all the way to the Frozen Four, culminating in a spectacular, nail-biting victory to win the NCAA National Championship just three weeks ago. 

And then, the phone rang. Undrafted, overlooked, but undeniable — the Boston Bruins offered John Logan an Entry-Level Contract. 

Now, he is here. Earning his ice time. 

The puck cycles around the boards. Garrett, wearing the black and gold like he was born for it, digs the puck out of the corner with a vicious check that sends a Panthers defenseman crashing to the ice. Garrett doesn’t even look, he just knows. He fires a blind, spinning backhand pass straight across the slot. 

Logan is exactly where he needs to be. 

He doesn’t stop the puck. He doesn’t stickhandle. He drops to one knee and one-times the shot with the devastating, explosive power that has haunted goalies all year. 

The puck goes top-shelf, completely blowing past the goaltender’s glove, pinging off the crossbar, and burying itself in the back of the net. 

The goal horn absolutely shatters the air. The red light flashes. The TD Garden erupts into pure pandemonium. 

You jump to your feet, screaming so loudly your throat instantly burns. Dean and Tucker are out of their seats, too, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you as the crowd completely loses its mind. 

Down on the ice, Logan throws his arms in the air, a massive, blinding smile breaking across his face. Garrett is the first one to reach him, tackling his best friend into the glass. The rest of the line swarms them, a massive pile of black and gold celebrating the rookie connection. 

“That’s my boyfriend!” You scream at the top of your lungs, not caring who hears you. “And my brother! Those are my boys!”

“Absolute filth!” Dean yells, high-fiving a random stranger in the row in front of you. “Did you see those hands? The Briar boys are taking over!”

The final five minutes of the game pass in a blur of frantic defense, but the Bruins hold the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the 3-2 victory, you feel tears hot and heavy in the corners of your eyes. 

He did it. They both did it. 

***

The tunnel underneath the TD Garden smells like millions of dollars of athletic equipment, sweat, and cheap champagne. You, Dean, and Tucker are waiting by the family and friends barricade outside the Bruins locker room. 

The heavy double doors swing open, and a wave of massive, suited-up men begins to filter out. 

Garrett spots you first. He is wearing a sharp, dark blue suit, his hair still damp from the showers. He looks completely exhausted, sporting a fresh cut on his chin, but he is glowing with sheer adrenaline. 

“Get over here!” Garrett grins, bypassing the barricade and wrapping you in a massive, bone-crushing hug. 

“You were amazing,” you laugh, squeezing him back just as fiercely. “That pass was unreal, G.”

“Hey, I just put it in his wheelhouse,” Garrett says, pulling back and ruffling your hair affectionately. “He had to do the hard part.”

Garrett turns to fist-bump Dean and Tucker, launching immediately into a breakdown of the defensive pairings. 

You look past Garrett’s shoulder, and your breath completely stalls in your chest. 

Logan walks out of the locker room. He is wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He looks older, sharper, completely transformed from the college boy in the messy hoodies. But when his eyes lock onto yours, the incredibly soft, reverent expression on his face is exactly the same. 

He drops his duffel bag entirely. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks straight up to you, wrapping his large hands around your waist, and lifts you completely off the floor. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne. 

“You did it,” you whisper against his skin, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re in the NHL, Logan.”

Logan presses a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your head before setting you back down. He doesn’t let go of your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to the absolute monstrosity you are wearing. 

A slow, highly amused smirk spreads across his face. 

“Sweetheart,” Logan drawls, his voice a low, raspy rumble that instantly makes your stomach flip. “I love you with my entire heart. But that jersey is a profound tragedy. AFT. Absolute Fucking Tragedy.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “It represents my dual loyalties. I couldn’t pick just one of you for your debut.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Garrett chimes in, though his lips are twitching. “Even if my side is clearly the superior half.”

“Debatable,” Logan shoots back effortlessly. He looks down at you again, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line over your hip bone, right through the heavy fabric of the jersey. His eyes darken significantly, the adrenaline of the game bleeding seamlessly into a different, much heavier kind of hunger. “You ready to get out of here?”

You look at the tight clench of his jaw, at the raw heat burning in his eyes, and you instantly know exactly what he needs. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice dropping an octave. “Take me home.”

***

Logan’s new apartment in the city is a sleek, modern high-rise with massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline. But tonight, you couldn’t care less about the view. 

The second the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, locking the world outside, the remaining shred of Logan’s restraint violently snaps. 

He drops his keys onto the console table, grabbing the lapels of your ugly, half-and-half jersey, and pulls you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes down onto yours with a desperate, bruising force. You gasp into his mouth, your hands immediately flying up to tangle in his damp, dark hair. 

The kiss is explosive. It is loaded with the pent-up tension of the last year, the sheer relief of his father’s rehab, the triumph of the National Championship, and the blinding reality of his NHL debut. Every single emotion he has been bottling up is pouring directly into you. 

“Logan,” you moan against his lips, tasting the faint, lingering salt of his sweat mixed with the sharp mint of his gum. 

“I need you,” he groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your core. “Right now. I need you right now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands grip the bottom hem of the jersey, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the expensive, custom-made fabric carelessly onto the hardwood floor. 

You are left wearing a small, black lace bra and your jeans. Logan’s eyes sweep over your body, completely blown wide with lust. 

“My turn,” you breathe, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. 

You push it off his broad shoulders, letting it join your jersey on the floor. Your hands move frantically to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. You manage to undo three before your patience entirely runs out, and you just grip the fabric and pull. Two buttons pop off, pinging sharply against the floorboards, but neither of you cares. 

You push the shirt off his arms, leaving him entirely bare from the waist up. His chest is heaving, the heavy, defined muscles of his torso rising and falling rapidly under your touch. You press your palms flat against his hot skin, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach. 

Logan lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his hands dropping to the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down, sliding his large, warm hands inside the denim to grip the bare curve of your hips. 

With effortless strength, he lifts you entirely off the floor. 

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind his back. Logan walks you backward through the apartment, his mouth devouring yours the entire way, until your back hits the cool plaster wall of the hallway. 

He pins you there, his body a solid, immovable weight against yours. The heavy friction of his slacks grinding against the soft denim of your half-undone jeans is maddening. 

“You have no idea,” Logan mutters against your neck, his lips blazing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me. You saved my life, Y/N.”

“You saved yourself,” you whisper, arching your neck to give him better access. 

“No,” he counters fiercely, biting down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your center. “I was drowning. I was perfectly content to drown. And you pulled me out.”

His hands slide around to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly higher against the wall. The angle is agonizingly perfect. 

“Show me,” you challenge him, your voice shaking with pure, unadulterated need. “Show me, Logan.”

His eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He sets you back down on your feet just long enough to ruthlessly strip the rest of your clothes away. You kick your jeans aside, stepping out of your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Logan makes quick work of his slacks and boxer briefs, his eyes never leaving your face. 

The second he is free, he crowds you back against the wall. The sudden, intense shock of his hot, bare skin pressing flush against yours draws a loud gasp from your throat. 

Logan reaches down, his calloused fingers sliding between your thighs. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He knows exactly how ready you are. He finds your center, his thumb pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot, and you completely shatter before he even truly begins. 

“Logan!” You cry out, your knees buckling entirely. 

He catches you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist to hold you up as the violent wave of the orgasm rips through you. You sob into his shoulder, your muscles clenching uncontrollably around nothing, desperate for the solid weight of him. 

“I’ve got you,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “I’ve always got you.”

He waits for the tremors to subside before shifting his grip. He parts your thighs with his knee, aligning himself perfectly at your entrance. He looks down at you, the raw, desperate devotion in his eyes making your breath completely stall in your lungs. 

“Mine,” Logan whispers, the word a fierce, undeniable claim. 

“Yours,” you agree instantly. 

He pushes inside you in one long, devastating thrust. 

The sensation is entirely overwhelming. You throw your head back against the wall, a loud, broken moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. Logan groans deeply, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he takes a second to simply feel the incredible, suffocating tightness of your body wrapping around his. 

“You feel incredible,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your hands sliding up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. 

Logan pulls back almost entirely before driving forward again, setting a slow, agonizingly deep pace. The hallway is entirely silent save for the heavy, wet slide of bodies and the ragged, desperate sound of your synchronized breathing. Every thrust is precise, deliberate, completely burying himself inside you. 

The friction against the wall is intense, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his body. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan commands, his voice a harsh rasp. 

You comply immediately, lifting your legs to wrap securely around his waist, locking your ankles together. The change in angle allows him to hit perfectly, impossibly deep. 

The slow, torturous pace vanishes. Logan’s restraint completely snaps. 

He grips your hips with bruising force, his thrusts becoming frantic, punishing, and entirely unhinged. He is completely lost in you, chasing the high, pouring every ounce of the night’s adrenaline directly into your body. You cling to him, matching his desperate rhythm, your moans bouncing off the walls of the quiet apartment. 

“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hard, bruising kiss against your pulse point. “I’m going to-”

“Me too,” you sob out, the second climax building with terrifying, blinding speed. “Logan, please.”

He thrusts deeply, pulling out, and driving forward one final, devastating time. 

A harsh, jagged cry tears from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid, his muscles locking tight as he finds his release. He holds you flush against the wall, completely pinning you in place, taking the full brunt of your own explosive orgasm as it crashes over you simultaneously. 

You completely melt against him, your vision literally going white around the edges. 

For a long time, the only sound in the hallway is the frantic, hammering rhythm of your hearts and the ragged gasps for air. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his heavy weight supported entirely by his own legs as he holds you up against the wall. 

Eventually, slowly, the reality of the apartment seeps back in. 

Logan carefully lowers your legs, sliding out of you with a soft, wet sound, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist so you don’t collapse onto the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently they feel like water. 

He leans his forehead against yours, looking down at you with an incredibly soft, sated expression. 

“Wow,” you breathe out, letting your head loll back against the wall. 

Logan chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Before you actually pass out in my hallway.”

He sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly into the massive master bedroom. The city lights of Boston filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, amber glow over the massive king-sized bed. 

He sets you down on the soft sheets, pulling the heavy duvet up over your bare body before crawling into the bed beside you. 

You instantly curl into his side, resting your head on his bare chest, your hand flattening over his heart. He wraps a heavy arm around you, holding you close, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your bare shoulder. 

“Are you happy?” You ask quietly, looking up at him in the dim light. 

Logan looks down at you. He thinks about the heavy, suffocating pressure of his dad’s failing business. He thinks about the guilt of watching Jeff put his life on hold. He thinks about the terrifying moment he almost walked away from hockey forever. 

And then he thinks about the moment the puck hit the back of the net tonight. He thinks about Garrett tackling him against the glass. He thinks about you, wearing that ridiculous, beautiful half-and-half jersey, screaming his name from the stands. 

“I’m more than happy,” Logan whispers, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.”

He shifts, pulling you up slightly so he can look you directly in the eyes. The cocky, sarcastic facade is completely gone. There is only John Logan, the man who finally got his life back. 

“I love you, Y/N,” Logan says, his voice thick with emotion. “You gave me the courage to fight for my own life. And I swear to God, I am going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. 

“You don’t have to fight for me, Logan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m already yours.”

Logan smiles, that bright, devastatingly handsome smirk that first caught your attention in a dark, sweaty Boston bar over a year ago. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, impossibly tender kiss. 

“HEA,” Logan murmurs against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You laugh softly, running your hands through his messy hair. “Happily Ever After?”

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Lewis smiled as you walked into his driver’s room. It had been literal months since you’d last seen each other in person, months since you’d been in his sights in general, and a year since you’d been at a race. 

“Don’t you look pretty,” he smiled, wrapping his hands around your waist as you chuckled. 

“I could say the same for you,” you smiled, bringing a hand up to play with his hair. “Get ‘em retwisted recently?”

He nodded. “Had to look good for you,” he joked. 

You laughed. “You’re too good to me.”

He pressed his lips to yours, and man, did it feel right. You hadn't been with him for months. You missed your husband, and he missed you right back. His hands slid lower, gripping your ass as he sighed into your lips. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled. “Too long to not see you.”

It had been a very long time. You two lived together in Monaco, but you were successful in your own right. You were part of the Indycar racing series. You loved Indycar, and truly had no intention to pivot into F1. You were an American after all, born and raised out in Marfa, Texas. The seasons were never going to match up, but you and Lewis worked damn hard to make your relationship work, and work well. You texted everyday, called every second day for at least an hour, and made it a habit to see each other at least every 4 months. You’d gone longer this time, 6 months, since both of you were too busy with work or holidays or something else. But now, the Indycar season is over, you were the victor, and you planned to come to the rest of the F1 races, under the guise of being Carmen’s friend, not Lewis’s wife. No one really knew you two even knew each other, let alone got married 2 years ago.  

“I missed you too,” you smiled as he pressed kisses down your neck. “We can’t let it go this long again.” 

“I promise it won’t,” he sighed. “Missed having you here. It’s been a tough fucking season.” 

“I know baby,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” he shrugged. “Ferrari better be the right move next year.”

“It will be. You’ll win your 8th and then you can come be my WAG in Indycar,” you smiled, making him laugh. 

“Always with the solutions,” he chuckled. “Who says I’m settling with 8?”

“Me. You’re getting old, baby. If you want little Hamiltons’ running around, then you’d better be at home to take care of them,” you smiled, though stern in your tone. 

“Yes ma’am,” he smiled. “Man, I love you.”

“I love you too, now, I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

“See you at the finish line my love,” he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek before you left. 

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He’d done it again, another win, somehow. Through the fucking Austin heat, he’d pulled through with that piece of shit strategy from Mercedes. You cheered in the paddock, all cameras on you, but you didn’t care. He’d won yet another GP and you were hardly going to gently clap. 

You ran up to the Parc Fermé with Carmen, both ecstatic at the result (George got P2). You watched in awe as he left the car, celebrating with the team. You’d missed his latest victory in Silverstone and you were delighted to not have missed this one. He ran over to the team, searching only for you. 

“Where’s Y/n?!” he shouted over the cheering. You grabbed at his arm and smiled when he finally made eye contact with you. Suddenly he helmet was pulled off, his lips were on yours,  you were over the barricade and in his arms. 

“Lewis!” you scolded with a smile, pulling away. “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating with my beautiful wife,” he smirked. 

It was difficult to stay mad at him when he was looking at you like you hung the stars just for him. 

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Transcription of Lewis Hamilton’s GQ Sports interview:

GQ: So, Lewis, another win in Austin this time, how did it feel?

Lewis: It was amazing, I mean there was just so much riding on the moment, and it gave us the extra points to get up to Ferrari. There’s such a great atmosphere at places like Austin, especially since it’s a Sprint race and a Feature race, it means a lot to get to win both. 

GQ: And now we’d like to talk about the obvious elephant in the room

Lewis: And what’s that? (chuckling)

GQ: Your secret relationship with Indycar winner Y/n Y/l/n?

Lewis: It’s Y/n Hamilton, actually, and yes, what about it?

GQ: You’re married?

Lewis: Past 2 years, but we’ve been dating for 5. Best 5 years of my life. 

GQ: How did you keep this from the press?

Lewis: Well, we’ve always been the kind of people who do our own thing, and we never really felt the need to be super open about our relationship because of that. We’re both introverts and we both enjoy what little privacy we can have in our mad world, and I think that’s another reason we didn’t tell anyone. We’re also not stupid. Sometimes relationships don’t work out, it’s happened to everyone, and we didn’t want to tell anyone until we were serious about each other, and by then, we were engaged and while we became less careful with hiding our relationship, we’re naturally private people, so it just… never slipped out I guess (shrugging). 

GQ: And what has your reaction been like to the reception of your relationship?

Lewis: (chuckling) It’s funny to see how the internet sees us now, y’know, it’s pretty amusing to see the edits and the theories and the people swearing they’ve known from the start. Honestly I’m really enjoying it. So is she. 

GQ: How did you two meet?

Lewis: I think it was actually Austin. Whenever we’re in America we usually get roped into meeting the Indycar side of our teams, if we have one, and she was just… there when I went to the track. It was so ridiculous, I was asking everyone who she was, and like, everything about her, it was bordering on embarrassing. 

GQ: What drew you to her?

Lewis: She’s just one of those people you meet once and know you can’t live without. She was so kind, and she was helping another team with their car because she’s an engineer, and she was literally being told off by her boss right then and there, and all she said back was, ‘If they have no car, they have no race. They’re not even close to us in the championship, all I’m doing is helping them put the thing back together. Have a bit of empathy’. I knew I was a goner. I just wanted to know everything about her. 

GQ: She’s a woman of the people? 

Lewis: She’s always helping people. We’re philanthropists when we’re not racing and she teaches free classes on engineering in the deep south to get kids out of poverty. They don’t even know who she is, she’s just their teacher, same as anyone else. It’s pretty incredible stuff. 

GQ: Wow, that sounds amazing. She sounds like a very incredible woman.

Lewis: She is. 

GQ: Finally, why did you keep this from everyone?

Lewis: Why shouldn’t we? When you’re in the public eye, everyone knows everything about you, and you’re just supposed to deal with that. We both just wanted something for ourselves rather than to broadcast absolutely everything. I’m deeply uninterested in giving the media more things to write about, and so is she. The only media about us we should be hearing is our race results, not who we’re dating and I think we’ve forgotten that in the past few years. It’s all become quite the popularity contest, and I’m getting tired of playing it.

GQ: Thank you for your time.

Lewis: You too.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

Phoenix Raceway.

Third in points going into the weekend, which meant everything and nothing simultaneously — enough to matter, not enough to breathe easy. The end of season races had a way of doing that, compressing the whole season into a handful of weekends where every decision, every lap, every pit call carried a weight that the regular season only approximated.

She'd learned not to think too far ahead. Just this weekend. Just Phoenix.

Scout had opinions about Phoenix, specifically about the desert heat in October which was different from the desert heat in March and somehow worse, and had communicated these opinions by refusing to move from the air-conditioned motorhome until absolutely necessary. She couldn't blame her.

Friday morning had that particular race weekend energy — sharper than usual, everyone a little more deliberate, the garages moving like it knew something was at stake. She'd done her debrief, walked the track with her engineer, gone over notes she already knew by heart. The usual.

The noise — the other noise, the kind that lived in comment sections and reply threads and the particular corners of the internet that had decided she was a convenient target — she'd gotten good at letting that exist at a distance. It was always there. The people who'd decided she was Carson's shadow, or something that had arrived in NASCAR sideways rather than through the years of work that had actually gotten her here. She'd learned not to look directly at it. Not because it didn't sting, but because it was always going to be there and she had a car to drive.

Her fans were louder than they used to be, which helped. After her earlier wins and Las Vegas especially — she'd watched her own corner of the internet grow teeth in real time, watched people who'd always been there suddenly have company, watched the Reddit thread that had gotten everything wrong pivot into something that got her exactly right. That helped too.

It didn't make the other stuff quieter. It just made it easier to hear past it.

She had a sponsor event at noon.

The event was straightforward — a Spire Motorsports partner thing, the kind of Friday afternoon access situation that involved a small media contingent, some brand content, and the particular performance of being personable and professional simultaneously. She was good at it but would rather not have to be there. Carson was unpredictable at it, which their PR person had long since accepted as a fixed condition of his existence (He'd already said something mildly unhinged to someone from the sponsor's social media team and she'd given him a look and he'd dialed it back to merely chaotic, which was the best available outcome.) Daniel was great, he had long ago mastered the trick of making corporate obligations feel like actual conversations. He wasn't flashy about it. He just looked people in the eye, smiled, asked questions back, and left everyone convinced they'd gotten a little more of his time than the schedule had actually allowed.

The questions were routine for the first twenty minutes. Chase position, the car, Phoenix specifically, what the weekend looked like from where she was standing. She answered them the way she always did — direct, specific, no filler. She'd never seen the point of filler.

Then a reporter she didn't recognize — credentials she hadn't caught, the kind of access that sometimes materialized at these events from sources that weren't exactly the core motorsport press — leaned forward with the particular energy of someone who had decided they were about to say something interesting.

"Given everything that's happened this season off the track," he said, "do you think your profile has risen more because of your relationship with Verstappen than because of your actual results?"

The room did a thing. Not loud — just a shift, the kind that happened when something landed wrong and everyone felt it before they'd processed why.

She took a breath. She knew how to answer this. She'd been answering versions of this her whole career, in different words, with different names attached, the same essential implication underneath all of them: are you sure you belong here, or did someone just hold the door open for you?

She opened her mouth.

"That's funny," Carson said.

His voice was completely even. Not loud, not aggressive — just present, cutting through the room with the calm of someone who had already decided how this was going to go. 

She turned to look at him. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the reporter with an expression that was almost pleasant, which somehow made it worse.

"Because she was outrunning half this field before he even knew what a choose cone was."

Silence.

Not uncomfortable silence — the other kind. The kind that settled after something accurate had been said plainly and the room was catching up to it. The reporter opened his mouth. Carson looked at him with the patient expression of someone willing to wait and see if whatever came next was going to be worth his time. Nothing came next.

She looked at Carson. He glanced at her briefly — just a flick of eye contact, checking she was okay — and then back at the room like nothing had happened, like he was perfectly prepared to move on to the next question and had simply made a small factual correction.

The event moved on.

She didn't say anything. She wasn't sure she had words for it yet.

r/NASCAR

📌 Y/N Carter Updates — the carson hocevar choose cone clip 

Posted by u/spire95daily • 47 minutes ago

if you haven't seen it yet. WATCH IT.

[video link]

I don't have anything else to say. I just need everyone to see this.

↑ 9.4k | 673 comments

u/Monsterorbust • 44m "before he even knew what a choose cone was" I need him to know he said that for ALL of us

u/95ganggang • 43m the way he didn't even raise his voice. he just said it. like it was obvious. BECAUSE IT IS OBVIOUS.

u/lurkingengineer • 41m that reporter really looked at a woman who has been racing since she was a teenager, who has built a career from the ground up at one of the hardest tracks on the circuit, who is THIRD IN POINTS IN THE CHASE, and decided the interesting question was about her boyfriend. I'm going to be so normal about this. u/f1nascarcrossoverfan • 40m you are not going to be normal about this   u/lurkingengineer • 39m   I am not going to be normal about this

u/nascarnotes • 38m her FACE when he said it. she did not see that coming. you can see the exact moment she realizes what he just did

u/redbullorbust • 37m she turned and looked at him like — I don't even have words for that look

u/95ganggang • 36m that's the look of someone who has a best friend who just said the thing she wasn't going to let herself say

u/oldschoolnascarfan • 30m third in points in the chase. runs that nobody in this garage would have called possible in a Spire car two years ago. and someone really asked her that question. in a room full of people. on camera. I genuinely don't know what to tell you about the state of motorsport media.

u/95ganggang • 28m at least Carson was there    u/oldschoolnascarfan • 27m   at least Carson was there.

u/maxshipper_supreme • 25m not to make this about something else but do we think Max has seen this yet u/lurkingengineer • 23m it's been 47 minutes and lando norris exists so yes. absolutely yes.

675 more comments

They walked back from the event in the late afternoon Phoenix heat without saying much.

That was unusual for Carson, who treated silence like a personal challenge, which meant he understood this one needed having. She was grateful for it in the way you're grateful for things you don't have to ask for.

"Carson."

"What?"

She looked at him for a moment — at this person who had been in her corner since before anyone was paying attention, who had sent her chaotic Reddit threads at 1am and talked her down from stress spirals and vaulted things he shouldn't vault to get to her in victory lane and today had just — quietly, calmly, completely — said the thing she hadn't let herself say.

"Thank you," she said. Simple. No speech attached.

Something moved across his face. Not the grin, not the deflection — something quieter underneath those things.

"You were going to answer it fine," he said.

"I know."

"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "You shouldn't have to. Keep answering that. You've answered it enough."

She nodded. Her throat felt slightly stupid about that, which she chose not to acknowledge.

He looked at her for one more second and then he shrugged — easy, loose, like it had been nothing, like he hadn't just meant every single word of it.

"Come on," he said. "Scout's been in the motorhome for four hours. She's going to be unhinged."

She laughed, and they walked, and the clip kept spreading somewhere behind them across every corner of the internet, and she let it.

Scout was, in fact, unhinged.

She'd done three full laps of the motorhome at speed the moment the door opened, investigated Carson thoroughly, stolen one of his shoes directly off his foot somehow, and was now lying in the middle of the floor looking extremely pleased with herself.

"She got my shoe," Carson said, pointing.

"She does that."

"How."

"Nobody knows."

He looked at Scout. Scout looked back at him with the absolute confidence of a dog who had no regrets. He reached over and scratched her ear and she closed her eyes like she'd won something, which she had.

She made coffee and Carson sat on the floor with Scout and they talked about the weekend — the car, the track, what Sunday looked like from where they both were in points — and it was completely normal, the most normal thing, and she was grateful for it in a way she couldn't have explained.

He left an hour later. She stood in the doorway of the motorhome and watched him go and then went back inside and sat with Scout and her coffee and the quiet desert evening.

Her phone buzzed.

From: Max 💙

Can I call you?

She looked at that for a second. He always asked. She'd noticed that early on — he never just called, always checked first, like he understood that her time was hers and he was a guest in it.

To: Max 💙

yeah

It rang almost immediately.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey." His voice was the same as always — unhurried, a little dry — but underneath it something was paying closer attention than usual. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

“Uh huh.”

She almost smiled. "I am."

"Okay," he said, in the tone that meant he was going to let her have it for now but hadn't fully believed her.

She leaned back against the couch cushion. Scout lifted her head, decided nothing interesting was happening, and put it back down.

"I watched the clip," he said.

"I figured."

"Lando sent it."

"Of course he did."

He was quiet for a beat. The thinking kind of quiet.

"Does it happen a lot," he said. "Questions like that."

She exhaled. "Versions of it."

"Before me?"

"Different names. Same question underneath." She looked at Scout, solid and warm. "Are you sure you belong here? Did someone let you in? Can you actually do this or does it just look that way?" A pause. "You get good at answering it. You have to."

The quiet on his end had a weight to it.

"You do belong there," he said. Not loud. Not emphatic. Just plain, the way he said things that were obvious to him and didn't require decoration.

"I know that."

"I know you know." A beat. "I just wanted to say it."

She pressed her lips together. Her throat did the slightly stupid thing it had been doing all afternoon.

"Where are you right now?" she asked, because sometimes that was the thing — just knowing where he was in the world when she couldn't be there.

"Monaco. The balcony." A pause. "Jimmy is on my lap. Sassy is ignoring me from inside."

"Standard."

"Standard," he agreed.

She looked out the small window of the motorhome at the darkening Arizona sky. Monaco and Phoenix — different continents, different time zones, different everything. She'd gotten used to the math of it. What time it was for him when she woke up. What he was doing when she was at the track. The way a conversation could happen in the ten minute gap between one commitment and the next and feel longer than it was because they'd both learned to be present in it.

"What does it look like," she said. "The water."

He was quiet for a moment, and she knew he was actually looking. "The sun’s just barely up," he said. "Calm. There are still lights on in the boats."

"I like when you describe it."

"I know." Not smug about it. Just — certain. "Jimmy is purring. You can probably hear it."

She listened. She could, faintly, underneath everything. "Yeah."

"He likes the mornings out here."

"Scout stole Carson's shoe today."

“Really?” 

"Right off his foot. He didn't even notice until he went to take a step."

"How."

"Nobody knows. She's done it to nearly everyone. It's affection apparently."

"That's terrifying."

"She likes Carson," she said. "That's high praise from her."

"She likes me," Max said, with the mild confidence of someone who had been thoroughly investigated by a doberman and came out the other side approved.

"She does," she agreed.

 She settled back into the couch cushion. Outside the motorhome the desert had gone fully dark, the kind of dark that only happened away from cities, and she could see a handful of stars through the small window. In Monaco it was early morning — the sun barely up, the water doing that thing it did at dawn where it looked like it hadn't decided on a color yet. She'd seen it once, in person, standing on his balcony with coffee while he was still asleep, and she'd built it carefully in her head since then so she could find it when she needed it.

That was the thing about the distance. You built things in your head. His balcony at sunrise. The way Jimmy always chose his lap over any available surface. The particular sound of Monaco quiet, which was different from any other quiet she'd been in.

He'd built things about her too, she knew. He knew what a race weekend sounded like from inside the motorhome. He knew Scout's schedule and the way her voice changed after a bad result versus a good one and that she made coffee before she looked at her phone in the morning without exception.

You learned each other from a distance and then when you were in the same room it was like confirmation. Like finding out the thing you'd built in your head was right.

"I hate that you're not here," she said. Not dramatic about it. Just true.

"I know." A pause. "Four more weekends."

"Four more weekends," she agreed.

It wasn't a promise exactly. Just the math of it, laid out plainly. Three more race weekends and then one more where she finished up the end of season stuff regardless of her results, then she would join him in Las Vegas before following him to the last few races of his own season, they'd figure out the rest from there. 

"Tell me something," she said. "Anything."

He thought for a moment. She could hear him shift on the balcony, Jimmy adjusting with him.

"Sassy knocked a glass off the counter this morning," he said. "Made eye contact with me the entire time. Did not break eye contact when it hit the floor."

She laughed. "She did not."

"She did."

"She's punishing you for something."

"I gave her the wrong food yesterday. Apparently she's making her feelings known."

"Reasonable."

"I don't think it's reasonable. I think it's disproportionate."

"Max. She's a cat. Disproportionate is the whole thing."

"Fair," he said.

She was smiling though he couldn’t see.

They stayed on the phone like that for a while after that — not talking about anything much, just existing in the same space across a thousand miles. 

It was never the same as being there. But it was theirs, this — the particular intimacy of shared quiet across a thousand miles, of knowing the shape of someone's silence well enough to sit in it comfortably. She'd learned to hold that carefully, the way you held things that mattered.

"Go sleep," he said eventually, softly.

"You first."

"I asked first."

"That's not how it works."

A pause. Then, quieter: "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," she said. "You will."

"Goodnight."

Las Vegas Motor Speedway.

Friday morning and the desert was already doing what the desert did in October — bright and sharp and dry in a way that made everything feel slightly more urgent than it needed to be.

She'd been up since six. Scout had been up since five, because Scout did not understand the concept of sleeping in and had expressed this by sitting next to the bed and staring at her with the focused intention of a dog who had somewhere to be. They'd gone for a run before the track got loud, just the two of them in the early morning quiet, Scout covering twice the distance she did by virtue of having four legs and no sense of pace management.

Now Scout was asleep on the floor of the motorhome like she hadn't just dragged her owner through three miles at sunrise, and she was on her second coffee going over the weekend notes from her engineer, and everything was normal.

Her phone buzzed.

From: Carson 🤠 [link]

No caption. Just the link.

She clicked it.

r/NASCAR

📌 Y/N Carter Updates — okay I need someone to validate my shipping CartVar Posted by u/spire95daily • 2 hours ago

Someone made a four minute video and I have watched it six times. I’m convinced they’re dating. I'm going to describe it because you need to understand what's happening here.

It starts with a clip from the media day interview at Darlington back in August. A reporter asks Carson Hocevar who his favorite person on the grid is and without missing a single beat, before the reporter has even finished the sentence, he points at her and says "her." no hesitation. doesn't even think about it.

Then it cuts to HER doing a separate interview, different day, and someone asks her the same question and she laughs before she answers. Not like a polite media laugh. Like a genuine "what kind of question is that" laugh and then says "Carson, obviously" like it's the most boring question she's ever been asked.

Then there's like six clips from their joint Twitch stream. I'm going to need you to understand what this stream was. It was two hours of Carson Hocevar yelling at literally every other driver on the iracing platform while she sat next to him and did not stop him once. She just sat there. She was smiling. She handed him a snack at one point without him asking and he took it without looking and they both just continued on like this was completely normal.

Then there's a clip of him in a post race interview after Kansas where he's talking about her race, not his, and he says "she deserved better than P8 and anyone who watched the race knows that" with the kind of personal investment that is not standard teammate behavior.

Then — and this is the part that got me — there's a tweet from two months ago where she retweeted one of his posts with just "correct" and nothing else and he replied with "thank you finally someone gets it" and she replied with "I always get it" and. I'm just going to let that sit there.

I'm not saying anything. I'm just describing what I see.

↑ 6.2k | 521 comments

u/Monsterorbust • 2h the way she handed him that snack without looking I think about it constantly

u/95ganggang • 2h THE "I ALWAYS GET IT" TWEET. I remember when that was posted and I did not understand its significance at the time

u/spire95daily • 2h none of us were ready

u/monsterpurist04 • 1h okay but to be fair they've been teammates for a year and best friends even longer so some of this could just be— u/lurkingengineer • 1h the snack. explain the snack. u/monsterpurist04 • 1h ...I cannot explain the snack

u/nascarnotes • 1h I went back and watched the full Twitch stream after seeing this compilation and I need everyone to know there's a moment around the 47 minute mark where another driver comes into the chat to defend himself after Carson roasted him and Carson just looks at her and she shakes her head slightly and he drops it immediately. he dropped it IMMEDIATELY. do you understand what kind of power that is

u/f1nascarcrossoverfan • 1h The silent communication. THE SILENT COMMUNICATION u/redbullorbust • 58m they have a whole language and we're only seeing part of it

u/oldschoolnascarfan • 58m y'all said this exact thing about the max verstappen instagram stuff a few months ago and then nothing happened so u/95ganggang • 55m the max thing was different this is different u/oldschoolnascarfan • 54m how is it different u/95ganggang • 53m the SNACK

u/maxshipper_supreme • 45m wait so we're dropping the max theory?? u/spire95daily • 43m I mean he still follows her and likes her photos but he does that with a lot of drivers. The Carson evidence is RIGHT THERE u/maxshipper_supreme • 42m I just think we're being hasty

523 more comments

She read the whole thread.

Then she read it again.

Then she looked at Scout, still asleep on the floor, entirely unbothered by everything, and thought about how nice that must be.

To: Max 💙 Carson sent me a Reddit thread.

Four minutes passed.

From: Max 💙 I know. Lando sent it to me this morning.

She sat up straighter.

To: Max 💙 Lando sent it to you.

From: Max 💙 He thought it was funny.

To: Max 💙 And what do you think?

From: Max 💙 I think they're wrong.

To: Max 💙 That's it? That's your whole response to people on the internet thinking your girlfriend is dating her best friend?

From: Max 💙 You're coming home to me at the end of the season. I'm not worried about a Reddit thread.

She stared at that for a moment.

To: Max 💙 You're infuriating.

From: Max 💙 You're stressed about nothing. Go focus on your briefings and practice session.

She made a noise out loud that Scout opened one eye for, assessed, and decided wasn't worth getting up over.

She called Carson. He picked up laughing, which was not a great start.

"Before you—"

"Five hundred comments, Carson."

"Five hundred and thirty-seven," he said. "It went up while you were reading it."

"That is not the flex you think it is."

"I'm just saying, the engagement is impressive—"

"They think we're dating."

"I know."

"They made a compilation video."

"I watched it," he said. "Honestly pretty well edited. Whoever made it has a future in—"

"Carson."

A pause. Then, with a slightly less grin in it: "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say something useful."

"Okay." A pause, the joke mostly gone. "Here's something useful — it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

"Five hundred people on the internet who don't know you, don't know me, and have never been to a race track, they’re just looking for something to do," Carson said. "That's what this is. That's the whole thing. All they did was compile things that are just — us. That's just what we're like. Best friends. We've always been like that."

"I know that."

"So what are you actually worried about?"

She didn't answer that.

Carson let the silence sit, which was unusual for him. When he spoke again the grin was fully gone. "Hey."

"I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. That's not what I asked."

She looked at Scout, still resolutely asleep on the floor. "I just don't love that the narrative is out there and I can't do anything about it."

"You could do something about it."

"Carson—"

"I'm not saying do anything. I'm saying you could. And you're choosing not to. Which is a decision you made. So own it a little."

She didn't say anything.

"You know how this ends," he said, simpler now. "You're the only one acting like you don't."

A long pause.

"Go look at your setup notes," he said. "we’ve got a race Sunday. You're in the hunt for the championship. Everything else is noise."

"When did you get wise."

"I've always been wise. You just don't listen." The grin was back, faint. 

“Okay mister wiseguy, I'll see you out there.” 

"Yes you will." He said and hung up.

Max landed in Las Vegas on Saturday evening.

Nobody noticed, or if they did, nothing surfaced yet. He came to the motorhome and Scout greeted him with the focused enthusiasm she reserved for people she had decided were worth her time — which was a meaningful list, not a short one — and he crouched down and let her investigate him thoroughly with the patience of someone who had learned the protocol.

"How was the flight," she said from the couch, not looking up from her notes.

"Long," he said. Scout headbutted his hand. He scratched behind her ear without being asked. "How's the car?"

"Better than Friday. Not quite where I want it yet."

He came and sat next to her and looked at the notes without saying anything for a while. Just read. That was the thing about him she still hadn't fully gotten used to after six months — the quality of his quiet. It wasn't empty. It was just comfortable.

"Your rear entry angle," he said eventually, pointing at something on the sheet.

"I know."

"Your engineer knows?"

"He knows."

"Okay," he said, and leaned back.

Scout relocated to lie across both their feet. Outside Las Vegas was being Las Vegas on a Saturday night — loud and lit up and completely indifferent to the two of them sitting in a motorhome going over setup notes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was, she thought, a very normal evening.

The Reddit thread had 1,200 comments now. She didn't open it.

She won Las Vegas Motor Speedway on a Sunday afternoon with three laps to go and a move on the bottom that Carson would describe for the rest of the year as "the most calculated thing I have ever watched happen in real time" and she would describe simply as "it was there."

The radio erupted. The crew erupted. She took the checkered flag and let herself be loud about it for a few seconds inside her helmet before everything got very fast — victory burnout, bringing the car in, the noise hitting her all at once the moment she climbed out. Carson got to her first because Carson always got there first, grabbed her by the shoulders and said something completely inaudible over the crowd, and she laughed, the unguarded kind, pure adrenaline. Then there were crew members everywhere, her engineer with his arms around her, someone putting a hat on her head, hurrying through the motions of victory lane, the interviews, the presenting of the trophy, the photos, the hat coming off and going back on, someone asking her to move left for the cameras and then right and then back again, and she was trying to be present in all of it — smiling and here and grateful then she saw him.

He was standing just back from the chaos, slightly removed from it the way he always was in crowds. Cap pulled low, sunglasses on, in the completely futile way that Max Verstappen wore hats and sunglasses as a disguise in public — like it would work if he just believed in it hard enough. He was watching her with that almost-smile, quiet in the middle of all the noise, and for a second the rest of victory lane went a little distant.

She thought about six months of late nights and setup notes and a pigeon on a balcony in Monaco and a Reddit thread sitting at 1,200 comments about entirely the wrong person.

She thought about Carson saying you know how this ends. You're the only one acting like you don't.

She crossed the distance between them with the trophy still in her hand and kissed him, and he caught her like he'd known it was coming — one hand at her jaw, completely unbothered by the cameras and the noise and the very public nature of what was currently happening.

It lasted maybe five seconds.

When she pulled back he looked at her with that same calm expression.

"Good race," he said.

She laughed, still a little breathless, still holding the trophy, still vaguely aware that there were approximately forty cameras pointed at them right now. "That's all you've got."

"You drove well in the second stage," he said. "Your tire management was better than the leader's. I was watching."

"You were watching my tire management."

"I was watching everything." The almost-smile again, closer to the real thing now. "But yes. Specifically the tire management in stage two."

She shook her head. Six months and he could still catch her off guard with it — the way he paid attention, the specific and unhurried way he saw things. She'd stopped being surprised that he'd noticed. She hadn't stopped being glad about it. She was still smiling when Carson appeared at her elbow approximately four seconds later. She watched him look at her, then at Max, then back at her. Something moved across his face — not surprise, more like a man watching something he already knew become real in front of him.

"So," he said.

"Don't," she said.

"I'm not saying anything."

"Good."

"I'm just standing here."

"Carson."

"Observing," he said. He looked at Max. Max looked back at him. Something passed between them — brief and unspoken, the kind of acknowledgment that didn't need words. Carson nodded once, slow, like something had been confirmed. "Nice to finally meet you properly," he said.

"You too," Max said.

She looked between them and felt something settle — quiet and certain and a little overwhelming — underneath all the noise of a race win on a Sunday afternoon in October.

r/NASCAR

📌 Y/N Carter Updates — VICTORY LANE. LAS VEGAS. I NEED EVERYONE TO LOOK AT THIS VIDEO RIGHT NOW Posted by u/spire95daily • 6 minutes ago

I don't have words. I literally do not have words. She won the race which is already — but then in victory lane she — I can't.

[video link]

I'm going to go lie down. Someone else take over.

↑ 18.4k | 1,249 comments — sorted by: new

u/Monsterorbust • 5m IS THAT MAX VERSTAPPEN

u/95ganggang • 5m IT'S MAX VERSTAPPEN

u/lurkingengineer • 4m THE RIVAL SPONSORS AGENDA WAS REAL THIS WHOLE TIME

u/monsterpurist04 • 4m I need to sit down I genuinely need to sit down

u/f1nascarcrossoverfan • 3m OUR OWN REDDIT THREAD. WE WERE SO WRONG. WE WERE SO EMBARRASSINGLY WRONG.

u/oldschoolnascarfan • 3m okay. FINE. I'll admit it.

u/95ganggang • 3m TOLD YOU IT WASN'T THE SNACK

u/maxshipper_supreme • 2m I NEVER DOUBTED THIS FOR A SINGLE SECOND

u/nascarnotes • 2m wait where's Carson in this video u/redbullorbust • 1m HE'S RIGHT THERE. HE'S WATCHING IT HAPPEN IN REAL TIME u/lurkingengineer • 1m his FACE. someone gif his face immediately

u/95ganggang • 58s Carson Hocevar watched his best friend kiss Max Verstappen in victory lane in Las Vegas and I think that's the most Carson thing that has ever happened

u/monsterpurist04 • 45s the rival sponsors agenda was real the whole time and we almost missed it because of a SNACK

u/nascarnotes • 30s I am not going to be normal about this for a very long time u/spire95daily • 15s none of us are