Let the games begin

Picture me in the trees- Part 4:

"So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" Bailey asks while doing your makeup. After a long day of convincing, she agreed to come with you only on the condition that she got to pick what you'd wear and that you'd let her do your makeup. "It's just you and me in the room, Bails, so it's kind of weird finding out one of us is an elephant," you answer, your eyes closed. "Garrett Graham," she sighs. "What about him?" you ask. "The lipstick is too much, Bails." Now it's your turn to sigh as you examine yourself in the mirror. The lipstick is burgundy and the dress is way too short for your liking. "He's smoking hot and he doesn't have a girlfriend," she says. As if it's obvious you'd be interested in someone who's taken. "He's out of my league and besides, there's a reason he doesn't have a girlfriend. Garrett Graham doesn't do relationships." You roll your eyes.

"Hey, don't ever say that. Everyone's in your league." There's no trace of amusement left in her voice. "Anyone who can't see your worth is the actual loser. It doesn't work the other way around, sweetie," she says dramatically, fixing the half-up hairstyle she did for you while the two of you examine the final result. "This is way too much, Bailey." You can hear the defeat in your own voice because you both know she won this war, and that this is exactly how you're going to John Logan's birthday party. . . . He doesn't even know when you got here, and that pisses Logan off more than anything. There are too many people in his house, so he missed you, and now you're sitting on the couch with Garrett. He doesn't recognize that dress and wonders if it's yours. Apparently, he also missed the part where you started dressing like this. You giggle, and your hand has brushed Garrett's shoulder four times already. Not that he's counting. Is there a chance Garrett's actually fucking you? It's a disturbing thought. A thought that makes him drain the overly sweet drink in his cup in one gulp. A thought that makes the back of his neck burn.

It's his birthday, and you still haven't wished him a happy birthday. Logan thinks that's objectively rude. Which is disappointing because you're the most polite person he knows. You taught him how to be polite, when he really thinks about it. "I'm gonna go offer Garrett a drink," he tells Grace with the kind of smile he hates. A fake smile that anyone who knows him even a little could spot. You'd spot it if you were looking his way. Grace doesn't ask questions, just nods and gives him a smile of her own. Logan doesn't stop to wonder if hers is as fake as his.

He sits down on the couch on your other side, like that's where he's supposed to be. Come to think of it, it is where he's supposed to be. "The birthday boy," Garrett jokes, and Logan takes another sip of his drink and nods. "You guys having fun?" he asks, looking at you. Only at you. That lipstick. That fucking lipstick. "It's a good party. Grace knows what she's doing," Garrett says. And you nod. You're definitely not having fun. He can tell immediately. You hate this moment and the one leading up to it. The people. The waves of heat and cold that make you sweat. If he knows you half as well as he thinks he does, you're looking for the most graceful way to get out of here.

"Rosie?" Logan asks, waiting for an answer even though he already knows it. "It’s fun." You smile without showing your teeth. "I'm sure," he says, and his shoulder lightly bumps yours. Like a private joke right in front of Garrett's face. A private joke only Logan understands right now. He wants to believe you do too. He's not so sure anymore.

"Want something to drink?" he asks, even though they both know the answer. "She's not drinking tonight," Garrett answers for you. "Worth a shot." He means it. He doesn't think he'll ever stop asking if you want to be part of life without being afraid of the consequences of every step you take. "Tucker made a ton of food," he says. "Don't be shy, Ros." He gets to his feet, suddenly feeling a little unwanted in the situation. Maybe even regretting forcing his way between the two of you.

"Happy birthday, Log." You give him another one of those fake smiles that tear him apart. He wonders what's so happy about it. . . . John Logan is a hypocrite. If there's one thing you're absolutely sure of, it's that John Logan is a hypocrite. Your whole fight three months ago started because he told you that you're too scared to live your life, because you're afraid of turning into your parents, and then he called you crazy. But here is John Logan, drinking, and you can see his face and behavior changing. He thinks too much. He's a clingy drunk. Always has been. He always knew how to find you to ground him before he started comparing himself to his mother. Before he started spiraling.

And now his head is on your shoulder, and you let him stay there because it's his birthday and you'll always be there to make him feel safe. No matter how angry you are at him. The people around you keep talking and laughing. You smile here and there, but the smell of his shampoo overwhelms you. "You okay, Johnny?" you ask, and he lifts his head for a second and smiles at you with glazed eyes, a toothy smile. "I like it when you call me Johnny," he says, resting his head back on your shoulder. As if looking at you for too long would make you pull away from him.

"Hey, birthday boy, wanna go to bed?" Dean says from above him. "Absolutely not!" he declares, sitting up, but his hand lands on your thigh because he needs some kind of contact from you. You're so used to it that you don't even react. "Come on, drink something." Tucker holds out a bottle of water, and John throws it toward the wall, aiming for the basket they attached to it. He misses so badly that the bottle nearly hits some poor freshman standing near it.

"Okay, Shaquille O'Neal, come on. Drink." You hold out your own bottle to him. "Shaquille O'Neal," he mutters with a chuckle and starts drinking. As if every word you say to him borders on a command. "Where's Grace?" you ask, trying to be practical about getting him to his room. "Went back to her dorm," he says with a sigh. You know that's not the whole answer, but you don't want to push. "Come on, superstar. You're done for tonight. Let's get you to your room," you say, standing up. Realizing this has somehow become your responsibility, because John isn't listening to anyone else.

"Hey, hey, Captain. Sorry, Captain, but Rosie's the captain tonight," he adds quickly in Garrett's direction, earning a tired snort from him. "Can you walk?" you ask as he wraps an arm around you to lean his weight against you. "Will you come with me even if I can?" he asks. "Yes, Log, but I'm gonna fall down the stairs if you don't help me," you announce. "I'm not gonna let you fall, Rosie. You know that," he says with a devastating seriousness.

You're almost certain you've already fallen. . . . "No, no, Log, get up, get up!" You try to sound firm as he lies down on the clean bed in his clothes. You try not to be overwhelmed by the fact that you haven't been in this room for three months and Logan is in every corner of this place. From the posters on the walls to the pictures on the dresser, the trophies on the shelf, the clothes on the floor. Everything in this room screams John Logan, and everything in your head screams that you don't belong here, but at the same time, there's nowhere you belong more.

"But my bed is so, so comfortable," he mumbles. "You have to try the mattress, Rosie. You won't believe it!" He sounds like a little kid, making you sigh for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. "Come on, Johnny. Up. We need to brush your teeth," you announce, knowing it's the thing that bothers him most when he wakes up hungover. "I'll help you, promise," you add, and he gets to his feet immediately. "You're an angel, (Y/N)," he says, moving the hair out of your eyes, making you roll them at the gentle gesture.

You grab his toothbrush and put some toothpaste on it, then hand him a cup of water to rinse with. He opens his mouth and looks at you with amusement. You start moving the toothbrush back and forth in his mouth, trying not to press too hard, but also not to miss any spots. "Wash," you tell him when he doesn't move and just keeps staring at you. He listens.

"You need to change, John," you tell him firmly as you look for a pair of pants he can sleep in. "Or at least take these clothes off. Your whole body is going to hurt if you sleep like this," you add. "You worry too much," he sighs, sinking back onto the bed. "I need you to help me take care of you, Johnny, okay?" You're practically pleading as he looks at you with an expression that makes you wonder if he's functioning properly. If he's practicing some kind of black magic. Will you ever be able to resist that look on John Logan's face? You suspect not.

"You'd be taking care of me if you let me keep lying here and if you’d stay for a while," he says stubbornly. "You're not getting your present if you don't help me get you out of these clothes." You're much more determined than he is, seeing as you're the sober one in this room. "You got me a present?" He looks surprised. "It's your birthday," you reply as if it's no big deal. "But you hate me," he says, completely confused.

"Johnny," you sigh again, "I don't hate you. Please, let's get you changed." You can feel your head starting to ache as he stands. "You'll give me the present after?" he asks suspiciously. "Promise." You nod at him.

He lifts his arms, and that mischievous smile returns as he waits for you to take off his shirt and put on a new one. "Jonathan Logan," you say, your hands on your hips, but your voice lacks any real bite. "You know my name isn't Jonathan," he says in the same playful tone. One that almost reminds you of when you were kids and he acted like the world belonged to him because he could smile and everyone would forget he'd done anything wrong.

"You can take your own shirt off." You roll your eyes. "Prove it." He shrugs. “It’s like you're two years old." You give in and step closer, slowly taking his shirt off, trying not to let your fingers brush over his overly defined muscles. The kind that belongs to an athlete who works himself too hard. Who demands more from himself than anyone else ever does. An athlete whose exhaustion is visible in every curve of his sculpted stomach. You swallow and refuse to dwell on the act or the intense way he's looking at you.

"Do you want another shirt?" you ask, knowing he doesn't usually sleep in anything but his boxers. You kind of hate that you know things like that about his life. He shakes his head no with the childishness that's defined him for the past hour. With an amusement that fills your stomach with butterflies that have no business being there. "Pants by yourself, John," you say, and he nods, doesn't argue, and takes off his shoes and jeans. "Present." He holds out his hand. "Lie down first." You're trying to squeeze whatever you can out of your earlier threat. He studies you intently, trying to figure out if it's a trick. "I'll give you your present right away," you add, and he's convinced. He walks over to the bed and lies down, propped halfway up. You hand him a pill to help with the hangover and a glass of water, which, for once, he takes without arguing.

"It's nothing special," you begin your speech. "I walked by this store like a month ago and couldn't not buy it, and we weren't even talking, so it's really stupid. I just..." You take a deep breath. "I thought of you." You finally give in and pull out the paper bag with the gift you bought him.

John Logan opens presents carefully, as if tearing the wrapping would somehow make him unworthy of what's inside. The beaded bracelet with the tiny shells looks silly in his large hand. Almost a perfect contrast to the man with the glazed eyes in front of you. He looks soberer now, completely focused on his gift. "It looked so much like the bracelet you gave me back then that I had to buy it. It was completely automatic," you mumble, feeling foolish after seeing all the gifts he'd received throughout the night. Everyone had celebrated his existence, and your gift suddenly seemed small and almost ugly.

He pulls you into a hug that ends with you lying beside him on the bed, his chin resting on top of your head. You hear him breathe heavily for a moment and wonder what's going through his mind. "I missed you, Rosie," he whispers. "I know." And you don't say it arrogantly. You say it because you know exactly what he felt. The experience was identical to losing a limb, you think. One you'd had your entire life but had to cut off so it wouldn't poison the rest of your body. And now you live with an absence that's too big, but complaining about it would feel ridiculous.

He moves back a little, giving you room to turn and face him. "Can I say something?" you ask quietly. "Always." He says it like he's trying to drink your thoughts before you've even dared to let them out. "Be kind to yourself tomorrow, okay?" you ask. You know how John treats himself after drinking too much. "You get to be a twenty-one-year-old who got drunk on his birthday. It doesn't say anything about you, Log. It just means you had a birthday and people love you enough to want to celebrate you," you add when he stays quiet.

"I miss you so much," he says after several minutes of staring at each other, each of you, for your own reasons, trying not to blink. "I miss you too. I just don't want to get in the way of the life you've built," you admit quietly. "Nothing I ever build in my life is worth anything if you're not there to see it," he says, offering a confession of his own in a half-whisper, as though saying it quietly changes the weight of his words. "But it can't be like that, Johnny. We have to let new people into our lives. You said so yourself." You sigh, reminding him of what he said when you fought. You can't be afraid of people all the time. "Fuck what I said." He sounds angry. You suspect he's angrier at himself than at you.

"Why did Grace leave?" you ask after several minutes of silence during which he's opened and closed his eyes at least three times. Each time, he tightened his hold on your waist, like someone checking to make sure you're real. "Because I didn't love her the way I was supposed to," he says, without elaborating, but you think you understand. "Was she mad?" you ask. "I don't think so. I think we both knew she deserved more," he answers without blinking. "That dress is ridiculous." He changes the subject.

"I actually liked it," you lie. "Uh-huh. And the lipstick?" He rolls his eyes, and you know he can see right through you. "I got compliments on the lipstick," you say with fake pride. "I'm sure you did," he replies, and you hate that you can't read him because he's shutting you out completely. "You didn't wear that dress for me. You wore it for Garrett Graham." He sighs tiredly, like saying those words is physically painful.

"Why would I wear it for you, Log?" you whisper, afraid of where this conversation is heading. "Go to sleep, Rosie. Tomorrow's a new day," he says, as though it's obvious to both of you that you're staying here tonight. "I need to go to my room." You try to free yourself from his hold, which only tightens around you. "Shhh." His other hand brushes gently over your eyes in a way you're afraid to admit you've always hoped was reserved only for you.

You close them, realizing that even at your most stubborn, John Logan always wins. . . . John wakes up with the aftertaste of alcohol mixed with mint and a painkiller. He spends the first few moments, while the sunlight blinds him, trying to remember how he ended up in his bed. Your pretty face, with the screaming lipstick and playful eyes, on his pillow, at eye level with him. Warmth floods his body until he realizes you're not next to him. You were his for a few moments and then disappeared. Like his dreams, dissolving in the morning.

Your concern, your humor. The promise that he's not like his mother because he drank a little too much. The realization that you miss him just as much as he misses you. Though he suspects there's not a person in the world who misses someone the way Logan misses you. On his nightstand, he spots the bracelet you gave him last night, and a smile spreads across his face on its own. The hangover is almost forgotten. The fact that his girlfriend broke up with him in the middle of his birthday slips his mind too. His heart is beating so fast that, for a moment, he's afraid he's about to have a heart attack. He looks at the chunky beads, the kind that are a little childish and remind him of the ocean. You saw this thing two months into your fight. A fight with no hope of becoming friends again. A fight that made you stop talking. A fight that made you lower your eyes whenever you passed him in the hallway. You walked past this bracelet and bought it. Bought it because it reminded you of Logan. Bought it because you thought of him. You thought of him.

Through all the anger and silence, you thought of him.

And just like he promised you, today is a new day. A day where he refuses to keep fighting with you. A day where he doesn't go back to being your best friend either.

A new day. And Logan's done wasting days.

.

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First of all, I’m really sorry it took me so long to write this. I hope it was worth the wait.

I also want to thank those of you who message me about the story. Hearing your thoughts truly means a lot to me, it’s one of the best parts of sharing this. I hope you’ll keep sending your theories 🩵

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You were never mine

Hooking up with John Logan is fun. He knows what he's doing. He never leaves you unsatisfied. And that's what it's all about, right? Ending up in his bed when you're horny, or a little drunk, or a little drunk and a little horny, and then he helps you with what you need. And helping? That's John Logan's specialty. 

You usually run into each other by accident. At some party you got dragged to and he's there, after one of his games, a random run-in at Malone's, the usual. You don't text during the day. It's not one of those situationships where something undefined is going on. There are no romantic gestures involved. There's a means and an end here, and sometimes you're the means and sometimes you're the end, and that's perfectly fine.

Because if you're being honest with yourself, and your therapist says you should always be honest with yourself, you're not one of those girls this happens to all the time. If you're being even more honest with yourself, it's never happened to you before. You ended up at the party where all of this started by accident, too. Your roommate convinced you to go because she wanted to make out with Dean Di Laurentis. You don't even like parties. You only go to them now because sometimes, when he's free, you get to make out with Logan.

Most of the time, you wonder if it's pathetic. Because he's said so many times that he doesn't have time for anything serious, because you've watched him flirt with every possible girl in the cafeteria so many times, every girl who isn't you, while sitting right across from you. Making his point. Explaining without words that whatever is happening between you isn't going to change, so you'd better not start thinking it might. You hate being honest with yourself. You suspect it leads to self-destruction.

Something in you, the side that's embarrassed by the whole thing, the side that hasn't even told your best friend you're hooking up with John Logan, knows you probably deserve more. It's not like you've done anything terrible in this lifetime. You didn't shove an old lady into traffic, and you didn't beat up the kids who were screaming on the bus. You've had opportunities to be mean and never even considered it, so maybe you don't deserve to feel like you have nothing to offer someone like John Logan.

But there's something pure about the look in his eyes when he's looking down at you while you're on your knees in front of him, your eyes watery from the effort. His hand brushes over your cheek with a gentleness that's almost unsettling, as if your tears are made of gold. Even when he pushes a little deeper because he wants to get off faster, you don't really feel like you're just a tool for his pleasure. You feel like you're a part of his life.

Maybe that's where your mistake begins. Because hooking up with John Logan is fun. Until it isn't. . . . Logan's life is a fucking shitshow. His mom checks in and out of rehab facilities like they're book clubs that only read her favorite books, probably something heartwarming like Little Women or the one she relates to the most, How to Ruin My Kids' Lives. He hates the look of hope in Jules's eyes every time the woman who gave birth to them checks herself into rehab and makes another round of promises she won't keep.

He hates the fact that the Bruins passed on him in the draft again this year, that he only has one year left to impress them, and if he doesn't, he's going to spend the rest of his life in their mother's shitty garage. His future will probably consist of changing the oil in cars that are way too fancy and cleaning up her puke from places he forgot even existed in their house.

Between practice, whatever little handyman gigs he manages to find around campus, and puck bunnies he has the privilege of fucking, Logan doesn't have much time to spend inside his own head. Right now, though? He'd do just about anything to have practice.

They'd just come back from a game. A brutal one against Yale. They lost because their team just can't seem to click, and Hunter and Dean are constantly at each other's throats. Dean's pissed at him for bringing Hunter in. Everyone is always yelling at everyone. It’s a fucking mess.

So now Logan hates being in his own house, too. Because everyone's looking at him like he's a war criminal over that situation with Hunter. But what was he supposed to do? Their team was in trouble, and Hunter was the best free agent he could think of. How was he supposed to know the history between him and Dean was a hell of a lot more complicated than some stupid rich-kid feud? You could've listened to Dean. The voice in his head that he's trying to shut up whispers. You could've listened to Dean and not reached out to Hunter at all, but John Logan made a decision, and it was a shitty one, so now he has to take the ricochets from the consequences.

He wonders if Dean will ever forgive him. Not out loud. He won't be wondering that out loud. But he's a little worried by the thought that it won't happen anytime soon. Because if there's one thing in his life that hasn't gone catastrophically to shit, it's the Hockey House. And lately, John's been spending more nights in other people's beds than his own. A few days ago, Garrett texted him just to make sure he hadn't fallen into a ditch and died.

Garrett. Another friend John feels like he's close to losing. Garrett, who already got drafted by the Bruins. Garrett, who's dating Hannah. Garrett, whose girlfriend is in love with him. Hannah, whose car Logan fixed during their freshman year and who didn't even know his name. Hannah, who waited on them at Malone's so many times that Logan knew exactly what she smelled like. Hannah, who chose Garrett without ever knowing Logan had been an option at all.

What a fucking shitshow. . . . The next time you see Logan, it's weird. To say the least. He shows up at the movie theater you work at for what looks like a double date with Garrett Graham. You try to hint to Thomas, the idiot you work with, that he should be the one helping them with the popcorn, but Thomas has the social awareness of a raccoon, and you're forced to put on the most convincing smile you can manage and ask them what they'd like.

Logan looks at you and has the decency to seem embarrassed for a few seconds. "I didn't know you worked here," he says. "The big bucks," you reply sarcastically. The big bucks? What the hell are you talking about? Why don't you know how to shut up? "You guys know each other?" Garrett Graham asks. "Not really. We have a class together," Logan answers a little too quickly. You wonder if anyone bought that. "So, what can I get you?" you ask again, this time not even trying to smile or look at him. Luckily, there are three other people standing there that you can direct this conversation at instead.

They give you their order and head into the ridiculously popular horror movie that's playing right now. You hate horror movies. That could never be you. "I'm just saying, if a guy says he doesn't really know you after he's seen you naked on your knees, he's the definition of a douche," Thomas keeps talking and talking, dissecting the situation and saying every single thing you don't want to hear. All you can do is stare at the theater door. How cliché is it to take a date to a horror movie? Who even enjoys being scared? You wonder if they're doing the whole cliché thing, if she's clinging to him during every predictable scene and he's stroking her hair or whatever it is people do on dates.

John Logan on a date. You're basically John Logan's waitress on his date. You fucking hate your life. "If you say one more word, Thomas, I swear to God I'll pull your intestines out," you mumble, dragging your gaze away from the door to the guy standing in front of you, hoping you sound firm enough, but knowing you don't.

The theater door opens, and you're a little surprised to see John. You're even annoyed by the smirk on his face when he catches you staring at the door, which you promised yourself you wouldn't do. "You have a uniform," he points out as he stops in front of you. "Aren't you the modern-day Sherlock Holmes?" Thomas's sarcasm comes out in a mumble while he doesn't look up from his phone, and you wonder if you want to kill him or kiss him on the forehead. "I have a uniform," you say. Great. Riveting conversation. "Do you need a refill?" you add.

"Actually, I was looking for an excuse to get out of there for a minute," he says. "Not a good movie?" you ask. "I have no idea," Logan replies. "That sounds..." You don't know what to say to that. "Like a waste of time?" Thomas finishes for you, still not looking at either of you. "I'm Logan," John introduces himself, because the interaction between the two of them is uncomfortable, to say the least. "I know, superstar." Thomas doesn't introduce himself back.

"This is Thomas. He's also a Briar student, and we both work here, clearly. Shouldn't you be getting back to your movie?" You're talking so fast. You hate the amused smile on his face. "I probably should." He shrugs and doesn't move. "I haven't seen you in forever. When was the last time I saw you?" he asks suddenly, looking like he's actually trying to remember. "You know how it is," you mumble, thinking that neither of you actually knows how it is. And that's okay. It has to be okay. "Seriously, though. It's been a while." His brows pull together as he looks at you this time, making you look anywhere else. The carpet is suddenly so interesting. "Yeah? You know how it is," you say again. Why are you repeating yourself?! "So you keep saying." Are you imagining it, or did he chuckle? "What've you been up to this past month?" he asks, leaning against the counter in front of you. "School, work, the usual. And you're probably busy with... hockey and dates and... you know... how it is." Dates? Fucking fuck. You seriously need to learn how to shut up.

"Hmm." His tone is so amused that you're almost sure if you look at his face, you'll find the most smug smile John Logan has to offer, but the theater door opens, and it's the tall blonde he came with, looking like she just stepped out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. "The movie's about to start again," she says softly to him as she loops her arm through his. "Do you guys want more popcorn? It's on me," you reply. Anything to turn away from this scene as you fill a bucket with popcorn.

For once, Thomas looks up from his phone, raising an eyebrow in the most obvious display of disapproval you've ever seen, not even trying to hide how much he hates this entire situation. "Enjoy." The fake smile from earlier is plastered back on your face again, and you hope your hand isn't shaking too much as you hold the bucket out to them. "Thanks, sweetie," the girl says, and Logan nods, no longer looking amused as they head back into the theater.

"Girl, I need to call your self-respect and see if it's answering-" Thomas cuts himself off at the look you give him. "I'm just saying, you know how it is," he finishes, repeating what you've said to John Logan five times during this conversation and making both of you burst into exaggerated laughter.

It was either laugh or cry. You considered option B, too. . . . Garrett basically forced him to go on that weird double date with some random puck bunny Logan did end up fucking afterward, but his mind was elsewhere. He's wondering now when the last time was that he, well...fucked you?

It's not like there were a lot of girls he'd slept with more than once. It happened rarely, and only when it was obvious to the girl in front of him that it wasn't serious and that he wasn't looking for a girlfriend. But you were cute, and every interaction with you was entertaining in a way he didn't know what to do with except take you back to his bed. Your sexual chemistry was good, so he'd ended up sleeping with you, what, three, four times? Five times? How many times has Logan slept with you? Why can't he put his finger on it?

There was the first time at that party a few months ago. You were both tipsy, and he'd saved you in his phone as Bob Ross because you talk so much, and right before he kissed you for the first time, you'd been telling him about how you dressed up as Bob Ross for Halloween once and didn't realize it was supposed to be a sexy costume. The time after that, he ran into you in the hallway. You were wearing a robe for a lab and were in such a hurry that you didn't even notice who you'd bumped into. You just apologized and kept running. He had to text you that day. You apologized again later. That was an apology worth texting. He always smiles when he thinks about it. God, you gave him one of the best blowjobs he'd ever gotten. Which is insane to him. Because he'd never, in a million years, guess that's a talent you have just from looking at you or talking to you. But if it were up to him, it's a talent you should put on your résumé.

There were a few more times at parties where he'd suddenly run into you. The conversations were always on point, not too long but full of funny moments because you genuinely don't know how to be quiet. And then, without him noticing, he stopped seeing you around. A month? Two weeks? When was the last time Logan fucked you? It's bothering him.

Almost as much as it bothered him that you were there to see him on that double date. He doesn't know if he'd want to see you on a date. Not because you're exclusive or anything. It's just weird seeing a girl you're still fucking every now and then on a date. No wonder you were so embarrassed. God, he loves making you embarrassed. Just not under these circumstances. Maybe he should see if you're coming to the party they're throwing after tomorrow's game.

Dean started talking to him here and there again. It's still not his best friend talking to him again, but it's something. So maybe they won't lose and there'll be something to celebrate. And if there's something to celebrate, maybe you'll come and he can celebrate with you. When was the last time you went down on him? Why the hell can't he remember? It's officially bothering him. . . . Bob, are you coming to the game tomorrow?(John Logan)

You're forced to stare at that text for half an hour. Even while working on your paper, your eyes keep drifting back to it just to make sure you're not imagining it. Because this isn't something Logan does. He doesn't invite you to his games. Or text you in general. The last time he texted you was two months ago after you ran into him in the hallway.

Not really my thing (Y/N)

You reply because you don't see the point in lying. Besides, who would even go to a hockey game with you? You refuse to tell Millie that you occasionally sleep with John Logan and that yesterday you accidentally gave him and his date the free popcorn you're entitled to once per shift. It's humiliating enough that Thomas knows. He definitely wouldn't go with you. He hates the cold and he hates sports. Something about high school and bullies.

That's a little insulting, Bob. Don't you think?(J. L.)

It's not supposed to be(Y/N)

What's not your thing? Be specific.(J. L.)

Hockey?(Y/N)

You wound me and don't even hesitate. I don't know how much more I can take.(J. L.)

Are you coming to the party afterward, or is having fun in general not your thing?(J. L.)

There's a party afterward?(Y/N)

My ego is bruised, Bob. You have to be considerate of my feelings.(J. L.)

But seriously, come. Bring whoever you want. We haven't done a tequila shot together in forever.(J. L.)

You owe me a tequila shot if I win.(J. L.)

I don't drink tequila anymore.(Y/N)

Since when?(J. L.)

Since I went to a party that only had tequila and walked into a pole on my way back to the dorms.(Y/N)

Delete that text and never repeat that story, even if the FBI interrogates you, John Logan. You're under oath. (Y/N)

If you don't come to the party tomorrow, I'll print this out and hang it all over campus.(J. L.)Goodnight. Dream about the tequila shots we're doing tomorrow ;)(J. L.)

John Logan is going to be the death of you. . . . Millie jumped at the chance to go to the party. You didn't tell her Logan invited you. You just told her you'd heard from a friend that if the team won, there'd be a party at their ridiculous house off-campus. That satisfied her. Thomas said he'd rather walk around naked in minus forty degrees than go to another athlete party. Fair enough. They won. After two losses. Someone said Logan scored both of the critical goals. It filled you with a sense of pride you had absolutely no reason to feel. Pride that doesn't belong to you in any way because Logan doesn't belong to you in any way.

"You're in my Lit class, right?" a blond guy asks while you're waiting in line for a keg of beer that's probably way too warm. You try to remember his name, but you're so bad with names that it feels rude to play the guessing game, and luckily, he saves you. "Liam. I sit two rows behind you. You're always the first one out of class," he says with a chuckle. "Because my class after Lit is always on the other side of campus," you explain. "(Y/N)." You introduce yourself and hold your hand out to shake his. "You shake hands?" he laughs, but he reaches for your hand anyway. Then he does something weird and doesn't let go right away. It makes you vaguely uncomfortable for a second, but you smile anyway.

"There you are!" Logan's familiar voice comes from behind you. "Why are you waiting for Tucker's beer? You owe me tequila anyway." He pulls you out of the ridiculously long line, putting some distance between you and Liam. Distance you can't help but be grateful for. "It was nice seeing you, Liam." You smile at him, but Logan doesn't wait for him to answer before giving your hand another tug. It's the most public you've ever been with each other. Not that there's anything public about it. He's just dragging you around his kitchen from one corner to another.

"You looked like you needed saving," he says, smiling as he looks you over. "It's the look I do best." You shrug, not knowing what to say about it because Liam didn't actually do anything. It's not his fault you're bad at small talk. "You missed a good game," Logan says. You can see it on his face that he's proud of himself. "So I heard." You nod. "Rumor has it you're the hero of Briar U," you add. "Does the rumor also say I'm handsome and have the personality of an angel?" He bats his eyes rapidly with an exaggerated smile, and you can't help laughing, which makes him grin for real for a second. "Did you get here a while ago?" he asks.

"A few minutes ago. That line is so ridiculous I lost Millie, my friend." You can feel the critical moment beginning, the one where you lose control of your mouth. "I'm about to tell you a secret that'll change your life, Bob." He looks at you with such seriousness that your eyes widen in concern. "You have to swear this doesn't leave this room. Not to... Millie?" He's briefly unsure of the name you mentioned two seconds ago. "Not even to your coworker who clearly doesn't like me." His seriousness is genuinely concerning. "John, are you okay?" You raise an eyebrow, and he drags you into a room you don't recognize that's relatively quiet compared to the chaos outside.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping close to you after he shuts the door. "Hey?" You laugh a little, making him laugh too, the air from his mouth hitting yours in a way that's somehow a little intimate even though nothing particularly intimate is happening. "Why are we here?" you ask. "Because I'm about to reveal the most important secret in this house, and you have to take it to the grave." He doesn't move an inch, and every word out of his mouth sends a shiver through you that has absolutely no place in a conversation that's supposedly completely normal. "Well?" You try to pull yourself together as you ask.

"This is the room where we keep the alcohol that's actually worth drinking." He whispers it into your ear, making you burst out laughing right into his shoulder. "You're so weird," you mumble after you've calmed down. "I'm about to make you the drink of your life, Bob. You're gonna fall in love with me." He flashes a mischievous smile, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to say. As if this is the kind of conversation the two of you are supposed to have. He clears his throat, realizing within a second what just came out of his mouth, and turns toward the impressive liquor cabinet behind him. For college students, these particular hockey players know their alcohol.

He makes the fanciest drink in the world and hands it to you in a red plastic cup that looks like every other red plastic cup. You also do the tequila shot he demanded from you over text yesterday. He makes sure to hold eye contact while you drink it. "When you get tired of the party, come find me, okay?" he asks as you walk out of the room. "And you can come in here whenever you want for a refill. Mi casa es su casa." He does an exaggerated bow while you roll your eyes but smile, and each of you heads in a different direction. . . . Logan doesn't know how to explain it, but at any given moment, he knew where you were. It didn't matter who he was talking to, how loud the music was, or how many people were currently in his house. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw who you were talking to and where you went. He didn't like it when the person you were talking to was the guy he'd seen you with at the beginning of the party. He didn't like the feeling in his stomach. He wondered if that's what you'd felt when he showed up on a date at your workplace. If he'd only known you worked there, he wouldn't have done it.

He sees you heading upstairs. Nobody else notices you heading upstairs, but he does. The only reason you'd go upstairs is to get to his room and wait for him to get to his room and- "I think I'm done for tonight," he mumbles toward Garrett and the rest of the people standing around him, not waiting for their response. "I wonder who he's going to fuck," he hears from behind him, and all he does in response is raise his middle finger in the air. It's none of their business. You're none of their business.

He wasn't wrong. Fuck, he's so happy he wasn't wrong. Because you're in his room, wearing nothing but his jacket and sitting on his bed, and it's way too pretty of a sight to take for granted. It's been way too long since you've been in his room. He has to make sure it happens more often. "How much have you had to drink?" he asks, because Logan may be a horny asshole most of the time, but he won't touch you if you've had too much to drink. "The drink you made me and the shot we did together," you say, and he doesn't know why, but he thinks it's hot that you've both had an amount of alcohol that won't make either of you skip this part of the evening.

"I've been thinking about you since I saw you at the movie theater," he says as he walks closer, moving your hair away from your face. "What were you thinking?" you ask. "That it's been way too long since I fucked you," he says in a half-whisper right into your ear. He likes seeing the shivers his voice sends through you. You're so easy. It's so easy when he already knows some of your weak spots. "Fuck, Log," you whisper back. "That your lips haven't warmed my cock in way too long," he goes on, saying the filthiest things in his vocabulary. He doesn't even know why it's so urgent for him to embarrass you. To see your cheeks flushed before he's even touched you.

"Yeah?" you ask, slowly dropping to your knees as if you've been given a command, as if he's magnetizing you to the floor. You look up at him from below, and his hand brushes over your face with that gentleness you've caught yourself dreaming about at night since the last time you were in this exact position. "God, you're art that belongs in the Louvre," he murmurs, not taking his eyes off you, trying to preserve the memory of you- your lips slightly parted while you’re on your knees in front of him. "Like this? On my knees in the Louvre?" you try to gather your confidence and somehow manage it from the glazed-over look he sends your way. You feel like you have so much power, even though he's the one in control right now.

You press a soft kiss to his jean-covered thigh, and he lets out a quiet groan. "Don't be a tease, (Y/N). I need you. All fucking evening you've been walking around me like I'm a stranger." He undoes the buttons of his jeans quickly, freeing his erection from his boxers too. "Already? I haven't even touched you yet, Log." You're not laughing. You're mesmerized. You're always mesmerized by his size, by the kind of aesthetics that make Logan so uniquely Logan. "Then start touching me already." He doesn't order you, but it's another quiet command you'll probably obey forever because your mouth is kissing the tip of him within seconds. As if you're worshipping him, with your hands behind your back, wet open-mouthed kisses that say, without words, thank you for the privilege. The kind that makes you feel pathetic at the end of the night but forces you to admit that's who you are for Logan.

"Open up, (Y/N)." He's done playing. You know he's done playing from the look on his face. You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he fills it within seconds. One hand holds your head like a stand, the other brushes over your cheek to wipe away tears that only turn him on more. He likes watching you gag around him. It satisfies him and makes him come faster than he'd like to last.

"Such a good girl, (Y/N)," he manages to mumble through low groans that only make you want to take him deeper into your throat. You moan at his words, which makes him groan again. "No wonder I want to fuck you over and over again. Look at you." He keeps going. "You were made for this," he murmurs, maybe to you, maybe to himself. You don't stop. You add your hand to play with the base of him that won't fit in your mouth. "Fuck, baby, I'm not gonna last like this. You trying to embarrass me?" he mumbles, rolling his hips in a punishing way. "You'll swallow?" he asks, and you nod around him, making him smile that satisfied smile of his. A few minutes later, he finishes, and even though you choke a little, you’re used to his taste by now, so you swallow as much as I can and stick my tongue out to prove you did what he asked.

"Such a good girl. Don't you think you deserve a reward?" he asks, and without waiting for an answer, he starts taking your clothes off. Some of them gently and some with such aggression that you're afraid they'll rip. He's between your legs so quickly. Chuckling at how wet you are as if it's supposed to embarrass you, even though you both know it turns him on more than anything else. Knowing you're enjoying yourself and want to be exactly where you are.

"You're so good," he murmurs against you as he runs his tongue over your clit, gently at first, listening to your little moans. Restrained just in case someone walks down the hallway. "God, if I could, I'd eat your pussy all day. Wouldn't give you a second to recover," he murmurs, and two fingers find their way to your entrance, pumping while his mouth moves over you, perfectly controlling every motion. Switching between licks and sucking and circles.

When you come, it's always sudden, and you never manage to warn him in time. When you apologize, he just chuckles and says it's the hottest thing in the world and that you never have to apologize for coming. Not with him.

"I don't think we should do this anymore," you mumble while you're both panting on his bed. Exactly what a man wants to hear after a perfect orgasm.

John Logan's life is a fucking shitshow. . . .