#the mistake

She felt so guilty. Hannah was her best friend. Why did she have a crush of her best friend’s boyfriend? Yes, he was attractive but so were his roommates. Why couldn’t she have a crush on Dean, Tucker or even Logan.

She thought she had everything under control. One night after hearing them have their second round of sex, Y/n pulled up her notes app to come up with a plan to shake off her feelings. First, avoid one on one time with Garrett and Hannah. Second, try not to gawk when Garrett is around. Third, don’t daydream about watching a movie with Garrett. Don’t daydream about Garrett in general.

For Y/n, her crush on Garrett wasn’t obvious. But for everyone around her it was as clear as day. When she saw them together she would sprint the other way. Which made Dean comment and on the regular that maybe Y/n should consider joining the track team with how fast she would sprint out of that situation. She would also avoid eye contact with Garrett, rambling random excuses to not speak with him. Everyone knew about her little crush, even Hannah and Garrett, themselves.

So after much discussion with Hannah. She had convinced Allie Hayes to speak to you.

“Y/n, come on. I won’t judge. But the first step to overcoming this is admitting you have a problem.” Allie says sitting on the small twin size bed. Y/n forcefully laugh her eyes still glued on the computer in front of her, her physiology midterm essay glaring back at her.

“Allie, are you reciting an addict intervention script? I don’t need to overcome anything, like I said before, you are insane. Why would I have a crush on Garrett? First, he’s Hannah’s boyfriend. Second, he’s not my type? Third… I can’t think of a third because of how ridiculous this sounds.”

“You can’t think of a third because you are clearly lying and are in denial. Look, I won’t judge you Y/n. Garrett’s an attractive guy. But you need to accept that he’s in love with Hannah, so you can move on this pathetic little crush you have. You can’t avoid spending time with all of us forever.”

“I can since I'm here to get my degree. I’m not here to get shit wasted at a stupid frat party or to get accused about liking some guy by my friend. I’m not going, not because I'm avoiding Garrett and Hannah, I'm actually busy doing things?” Y/n replies shutting her computer. Allie scrunches up her face thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“You are starting to sound like Logan”

It was ironic. While Y/n was crushing badly on Garrett. John Logan, Garrett’s best friend, was crushing on Hannah. A full soap opera moment if you will. Y/n picked up on Logan’s crush, not because he told her, but because it was pretty fucking obvious with the way he acted around her. Then Y/n would wonder if she was also that obvious, but she would shake it off.

There were two possible options for Logan and Y/n. They could continue with their sad high school crush and avoidance, it would eventually work on the couple making them break up and date the two. or they could date each other to end each other's suffering. When the thought passes through her head Y/n doesn’t think about it twice. That’s how she found herself in John Logan’s room on a Friday night at 10:30pm.

“You told Allie what! No scratch that. How the hell did Allie believe you? You barely even speak to me.” Logan said looking down at Y/n with a stressed look on his face.

“I’m speaking to you right now, Logan.” Y/n claps back as she reads one of Logan’s notes from an Econ class.

There was a small problem with the little white lie Y/n had told Allie. Y/n L/n and John Logan, don’t get along at all. John Logan got along with loads of people, but Y/n was one of the girls that didn’t stick for him. One time she had insulted his form after a game in front of the guys and that was the start of his dislike towards her. They would constantly bicker and to the blind eye, people would consider that there was pent up sexual tension between the two, even if they both denied it.

“You know what I mean. We barely talk to each other and when we do it’s to fight about something stupid.” John replied back clearly annoyed at your comments.

“So, you admit that the things you usually say are stupid? See we are starting to get along already.” Y/n force a smile as she turns to look at the man pacing in front of her.

“How the hell would you tell her that we are together. She has to know you're lying. You clearly aren’t my type.” Logan sat in the chair in front of you tugging his hair frustrated.

“Gee thanks. Don’t worry I don’t go for condescending assholes. She always says we have this pent up sexual tension and that we should work on it. So my best bet was to say I was dating you for it to make some logic. I was helping you out because Tucker has been calling you out on your crush on Hannah and…”

“I don’t have a crush on Hannah.” Logan cuts you off. Slapping his hand on the table in front of him.

“ and I don’t have a crush on Garrett but if we work together we could put those fake rumors to rest.” Y/n replies in the same tone as him. John Logan stands up and leans toward you.

“Fine, it’s a deal. I’m not going to enjoy this. We are doing this under my rules” Logan’s hand rests between your knees pushing them apart.

“Fine.”

“First rule. If they are going to think we are together they need to hear us hooking up” Y/n feeezes, she starts nervously rambling but he chuckles. “ I don’t mean actual sex. We can fake it. Like I said, you aren’t my type.”

“Oh, really? I thought you fucked everything that has a skirt on.” Y/n replied sarcastically.

“I have my exceptions.”

Logan grabs the bottom of the bed and pushes it against the wall. He pushes it again, doing the same action repeatedly as the headboard hits the wall.

“They aren’t going to believe it if you don’t moan. Come on, I know you’re a screamer” Logan says making Y/n glare at him.

“You are a pig. That’s what you tell all your hook up’s to fake their moans?”

“Actually, I work for it. I have an impressive form when it comes to sex.”

“Just like your impressive form in hockey”

“L/n. I wasn’t the one that lied to our friends. If you want to keep this act up and make our friends believe it. No scratch if you so desperately wanted to be in a fake relationship with me, you need to put in the work. Now let me hear you.” He whispered in her ear, still continuing the moments with the bed. His arm would occasionally bump with your knee.

“Why would I be the only one moaning. You need to moan too!”

“I don’t moan.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard you and you are pretty vocal. Come one John. Hannah and Garrett are next door. You want them to stop bothering with the crush? you better start moaning.” Logan let out a fake but impressive loud moan.

“Damn. Y/n” He let out a breathy moan. You hold in your laugh trying to take the situation as seriously as possible.

The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.

Your legs already ached.

The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.

You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.

Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.

The collision happened almost immediately after that.

Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.

You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.

A defender cut toward you from the left.

You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.

Instead, she drove straight into your side.

The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.

The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.

But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.

You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.

Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”

The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.

You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.

“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.

You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.

The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.

You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.

It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.

Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.

He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.

Dean noticed first, because of course he did.

“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.

Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”

Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.

“The defenseman?”

“The one that just got launched into the glass.”

Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”

Logan ignored him completely.

You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.

He wasn't irritated with you.

At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.

“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”

“That wasn’t a casual hit.”

Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”

“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.

Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”

Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”

“She hit the glass hard.”

“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.

The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.

You didn’t hesitate.

Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.

You didn’t.

You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.

Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”

Logan said nothing.

Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.

Twelve.

Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.

Logan leaned forward immediately.

“Twelve,” he repeated.

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Her number.”

Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”

Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.

“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”

Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.

“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.

The roster loaded slowly.

Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”

Logan finally looked back toward the ice.

You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.

Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.

Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.

Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.

“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”

Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.

Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.

Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.

For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.

Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.

“You’re done for, bro.”

Logan barely heard him.

Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.

By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.

Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.

Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.

The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.

Boston looked furious about it.

You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.

A defender moved toward you.

You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.

Your teammate buried it immediately.

The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.

By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.

You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.

Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.

His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.

Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.

Logan had not looked away from the ice.

Not once.

His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.

Dean noticed it first.

Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.

“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”

Logan barely reacted.

“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.

“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.

It came out quieter than either of them expected.

Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.

Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.

“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.

The final buzzer sounded not long after.

Briar won 7–1.

The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.

You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.

Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.

“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.

Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.

You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.

After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.

Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.

Toward him.

Logan went still.

Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.

It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.

Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.

Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.

The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.

Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.

He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.

Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.

Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.

Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.

He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.

Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.

Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.

Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.

Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.

His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.

#12.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.

You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.

Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.

Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.

He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.

You still had not noticed him.

Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Which was new.

Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.

Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.

He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.

By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t fucking panic.”

“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”

Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”

Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.

You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.

Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.

Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.

Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.

Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.

“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.

“Please be quiet.”

“Are you in love?”

Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.

Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.

His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.

At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.

Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.

Your ribs.

The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.

When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.

Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.

One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.

Of course he did.

Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.

Logan felt irritation spark instantly.

The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”

You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”

“You were really good.”

Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.

You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”

The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.

Then Logan stood.

Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.

“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.

Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.

The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.

Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.

#12.

Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.

“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”

You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”

The conversation should have ended there.

You clearly wanted to end it there.

But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.

Normally he wouldn’t have cared.

Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.

“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.

Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.

You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.

“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.

Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.

Something about it settled heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.

For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.

“You know each other?” he asked.

“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.

Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.

The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”

You smiled politely again. “See you.”

The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.

Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.

You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.

“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”

“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.

Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”

Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”

“It was bad.”

“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”

Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.

“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.

And Logan was taking that as a win.

Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.

“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.

The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.

Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”

“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.

“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”

“I know your name.”

The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.

“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.

You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.

It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.

“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Yeah, no, for sure.”

The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.

Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.

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You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe and looked him over. The set of his jaw. The way one hand was shoved into his pocket while the other dragged over the back of his neck. The forced ease in his voice, laid on too smoothly to be real.

“Rough night?”

Something flickered across his face.

For half a second, he looked like he might deny it. You could practically see him reaching for a joke, something charming and careless enough to make you roll your eyes and let him in without asking anything else. Then his shoulders dropped, barely, like even pretending was too much work.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Something like that.”

You stepped back.

Logan came in without another word, brushing past you with the familiar clean scent of soap, cold air, and whatever detergent clung to his sweatshirt. He didn’t flop dramatically onto your bed like usual. He didn’t steal a sip from the water bottle on your desk or make a comment about how you always had the good snacks hidden somewhere. He just stood in the middle of your room for a second, looking too big and too restless for the space.

You closed the door behind him.

“Shoes off,” you said gently.

His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”

“Always.”

This time, the almost-smile reached him a little more. He kicked off his sneakers and left them near the door, then looked at your bed like he wanted to crawl into it and disappear.

You didn’t make him ask.

You climbed in first, pulling the blanket back, then held the corner up for him. Logan stared at you for a second, and there was something painfully soft in his expression before he moved. He slid into bed beside you, careful at first, like he didn’t want to take up too much room, which was ridiculous because John Logan had never known how to be small a day in his life.

You fixed that for him.

You reached for his wrist and tugged until he came closer, until his body settled beside yours and the mattress dipped under his weight. He let out a breath when you tucked yourself into him, your leg sliding between his, your knee pressing against his thigh. His arm came around your waist almost immediately, heavy and warm, pulling you in until there was no polite space left between you.

His chest pressed to yours. Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp hair there. His forehead hovered near your temple before he finally let it rest against you.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

You just let him breathe.

His body was tense at first, muscles drawn tight like he was still bracing for a hit that had already happened. One of his hands spread across your lower back, then shifted, then stilled, like he couldn’t decide whether he needed to hold on or let go. You traced slow lines along the back of his neck with your fingertips, not trying to fix him, not trying to pry anything open. Just reminding him that he was there. That you were there. That the room was quiet and nothing was being asked of him.

After a few minutes, his grip changed.

It softened.

His thumb slipped beneath the hem of your shirt and brushed once over your skin, absent and careful. His face turned slightly into your hair, and the next breath he took sounded less like something he was forcing.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you murmured. “But you can. Only if you want to.”

Logan was quiet long enough that you thought maybe he wouldn’t.

Then he said, “Practice was brutal.”

You kept your hand in his hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Couldn’t get my feet under me. Couldn’t finish anything. Coach was on me the whole time, which, whatever, that’s his job, but…” He stopped, exhaling hard through his nose. “I don’t know. Everything felt off. Like the second I messed up once, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then I kept messing up because I was thinking about it.”

You nodded against him. “That happens.”

“I hate when it happens.”

“I know.”

His fingers flexed on your back.

“I’m supposed to be better than that,” he said. “I know it was just practice, but it didn’t feel like just practice. It felt like everyone could see it. Like every bad pass, every missed shot, every stupid mistake was lit up in neon.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

Logan didn’t meet your eyes at first. He looked past you, toward the wall, jaw working as if he regretted saying so much. In the low light of your room, he looked younger somehow. Not less handsome, because that would be impossible, but less untouchable. Less like the boy who smiled at everyone and got smiled at in return.

More like someone who was tired of being watched and still feeling unseen.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours.

“John.”

His eyes found you.

“You work hard,” you said. “Every day. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re frustrated. Even when nobody’s clapping for it or making a big deal out of it, you’re still showing up and trying to be better.”

His throat moved.

You stroked your thumb over his cheek. “One rough practice doesn’t erase that.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with tenderness when it was handed to him so plainly.

“And for the record,” you added, softer now, “your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by me.”

The room went very still.

Logan’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then came back up again like he was trying to be good, like he was trying not to use kissing you as an escape route. But this time, it didn’t feel like running. It felt like he had been standing outside in the cold all night and you had just opened the door.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

Your heart squeezed.

“Your effort doesn’t go unnoticed,” you repeated.

His hand slid up your back, slow and firm, gathering the fabric of your shirt beneath his fingers.

“Not that part.”

You knew what he meant.

You smiled faintly. “Not by me.”

Something in him gave.

Logan kissed you carefully at first, which somehow made it worse. Made it sweeter. His mouth brushed yours once, then again, warm and searching, like he was asking whether he was allowed to need this. You answered by pulling him closer, your fingers curling at the back of his neck, and the quiet little sound he made against your lips went straight through you.

The kiss deepened slowly.

His arm tightened around your waist as your mouths opened together, the tip of his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your stomach dip. It wasn’t rushed, not yet. It was warm and aching and almost too intimate, the kind of kiss that made it impossible to pretend this was casual. His hand moved from your back to your hip, then down to your thigh, pulling your leg higher over him until your bodies tangled more completely beneath the blanket.

You felt him everywhere.

The hard line of his chest against yours. His knee between your legs. His fingers pressing into your thigh like he needed proof that you were real and still there. Your own hands moved over his shoulders, then down his chest, feeling the strength beneath his sweatshirt, the tension that still hadn’t fully left him.

You kissed him until his breathing changed.

Until his lips grew hungrier against yours.

Until the softness became heat.

Logan rolled carefully, taking you with him, shifting until you were half beneath him and half wrapped around him, your back sinking into the mattress while one of his hands braced near your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to look at you, his eyes dark and open in a way that made your chest ache.

“You make it quiet,” he said.

Your fingers paused on his jaw. “What?”

He swallowed, then leaned down until his forehead touched yours.

“In my head,” he murmured. “You make it quiet.”

You didn’t have anything clever to say to that. You didn’t want to. So you kissed him again, slower this time, pouring every answer you had into the press of your mouth against his.

Logan made a low sound and gave in.

His body settled more heavily over yours, not crushing, just present, warm and solid and needy in a way he didn’t bother hiding anymore. His mouth moved from yours to your cheek, then to your jaw, then lower, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck. Your head tipped back before you could stop it, giving him room, and you felt the curve of his smile against your skin.

“There you are,” he murmured, but it wasn’t teasing.

It was reverent.

Your hands slipped beneath his sweatshirt, palms flattening over the warm skin of his back. He shivered at the touch, then kissed your neck again, slower, like he was learning where you were most sensitive and committing it to memory. His hand moved over your waist, your ribs, your hip, not careless, not greedy, but full of want. Like he was touching you because he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

You tugged lightly at his sweatshirt.

Logan lifted enough to let you pull it up, but before it could go anywhere, he stopped. His eyes searched yours.

“Is this okay?”

The question came out quiet. Serious.

It melted you.

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Yes.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Tell me if it’s not.”

“I will.”

Only then did he let you pull the sweatshirt over his head.

It landed somewhere near the foot of the bed, forgotten the second his mouth found yours again. Skin met skin beneath your hands, his body warm from the shower and the blankets and the way he kept pressing closer like he couldn’t get enough. The kiss turned messy, full of tongue and breath and fingers gripping tighter than before. He caught your lower lip between his, then soothed it with another kiss, and you felt him smile when your nails dragged lightly down his back.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“You don’t like it?”

His answer was another kiss, deeper than the last.

You laughed softly against his mouth, but the sound faded when his hand slipped under your shirt, his palm spreading over your waist. His touch was slow, giving you every chance to pull away, but you only arched closer, letting your body answer for you. Logan’s breath hitched. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for half a second, like he needed to collect himself.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said.

You turned your face toward his, lips brushing his ear. “Then show me.”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He let out a shaky breath, his lips leaving your ear to find yours again in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier, yet still laced with a desperate tenderness. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of longing and a sharp need to be as close to you as physically possible. Your hands slid up from his shoulders, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down and anchoring him to you.

He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration that you felt in your own chest. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slid further up under your shirt, his palm hot against your skin. He didn't rush. He traced the curve of your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You shifted beneath him, your legs tangling with his, your thighs brushing against the soft fabric of his gray sweatpants. You could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your hip. You arched your back, pressing your chest against his bare skin, needing to feel the beat of his heart against yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your lips, his voice thick and strained. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours. Finding no hesitation, he leaned down to kiss the sensitive dip of your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged.

“I’ve got you, Logan,” you murmured, your voice a soft reassurance. You ran your hands down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle as the tension finally started to bleed out of him. “I want you. All of you.”

That was the breaking point. Logan let out a choked sound, his movements becoming more urgent but remaining gentle. He pulled back just enough to lift your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. He lingered for a moment, just staring at you with a look of pure reverence.

His hands moved to the clasp of your bra, clicking it open with focused precision. As the fabric fell away, he leaned down, his mouth finding your nipple and sucking it softly. You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Please,” he breathed against your skin, his voice a needy plea.

You reached down, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. You slid them down his legs, kicking them away until he was completely bare, his cock springing free, hard and pulsing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you, the friction of skin on skin making you both shiver.

Logan braced himself on his elbow, looking down at you, his expression open and vulnerable. He guided himself to your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” you breathed, tilting your pelvis up to meet him. “Please, Logan.”

He pushed inside slowly, a long, steady slide that filled you completely. Logan closed his eyes, his forehead dropping against yours, a long, shuddering exhale escaping him. He stayed still for a moment, just breathing with you and letting the feeling of the union sink in.

He began to move, slow and rhythmic. He kissed you deeply, his tongue dancing with yours, while his hands cupped your face, holding you gently. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so there was no space left between you.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice breathless as you pulled him closer. “Right there. Don't stop.”

Logan let out a low, needy moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more fluid and more desperate as the tension built. You met every thrust, your nails digging lightly into his back, urging him on. The heat between you climbed, a slow burn that finally ignited into a blinding flash of pleasure.

Logan stiffened, his muscles locking as he came inside you, a deep, guttural groan echoing in the quiet room. You followed him seconds later, your body pulsing around him in waves of release that left you both breathless and shaking.

As the world slowly came back into focus, Logan didn’t pull away. He collapsed softly on top of you, careful not to crush you, his heart hammering against your ribs. He stayed there for a long time, his face hidden in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out.

Eventually, he shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked firmly against his chest. You both slid under the blankets, the cool air of the room contrasting with the radiating warmth of your bodies. You stayed tangled together, limbs entwined, the silence of the room now peaceful.

Logan let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded like he had finally stopped holding himself together. His arm stayed wrapped around you beneath the blankets, his thumb moving slowly against your side while his lips brushed your temple once, then lingered there.

“I love you,” he murmured.

It came out so softly you almost thought you had imagined it. Not planned. Not dressed up with confidence or charm. Just honest, slipping out of him in the quiet because there was nowhere else for it to go.

You lifted your head from his chest, and Logan looked down at you like he was waiting for the words to scare you away.

They didn’t.

Your hand came up to his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you too, Logan.”

His eyes softened all at once. The last bit of tension left his face, and he pulled you in closer, tucking you back against him like he could finally rest now that you knew.

By the second period you were unsure if you were simply aching or if either side had given up on sportsmanship and were playing with much more vicious grit. Preferring a rigorous spectacle despite it ending in some sort of punishment from the referee. You moved with seamless rhythm after the colliding of sticks, the puck remained in your grasp as you weaved through the neutral zone and managed to dodge some of the defenders.

The pain had reached you long after the initial reaction.

One of Briar's Falcon's shoved with less sensibility and more fury into the glass as the puck left your control. Attempting to swerve away from the previous collision, one of your teammates managed to pass to you. Guiding the puck with your heel and blade, you managed to shoot with the last amount of energy you had in the second period.

Your teammates were colliding into you before you managed to watch the lights flash red. The feeling of your side throbbing with pain, and the distant ambience of the crowd's eruption of pride dispersed into a mild murmur as you blocked out the atmosphere of sound. Once you became absorbed by the game, there was no way of pulling you out.

The score board hung the names of Briar and Harvard, measly flickering the numbers 3-4 as it too attempted to keep up with the game. The competition proving to have such tension that each time you looked back at the scores you were losing track of who was in the lead - despite your recent addition to the tally.

Logan wasn't failing to keep track.

He knew that with every score for Harvard, the puck was bruised with the strength of your shots. Logan couldn't determine when he first had his eyes on you, but ever since they did he had no chance of stopping. His perception of you was analytical at first, noting the quickness to your movements, and the conscious decisions of where to exert your force and where to maintain energy throughout the game. Slowly, he found himself simply in awe of your capabilities, unable to refrain from observing how you darted from each zone with such ease. The aggressive undertones of your play, the recklessness of your shoves, the gracefulness of your skating. Almost as though it was bubbling down into some feeling of pride.

"Fuck she's pretty good" Dean murmured, a hand brushed upon his bottom lip as he held himself forward in his chair, eagerly noting the nature of your game to Garrett seated to the right of him. "I mean Briar's definitely got one to beat, we're practically rooting for the wrong team here G".

But Logan wasn't rooting for Briar, unbeknownst to him, he was rooting for you.

It was then that Dean turned to face Logan, noticing his inability to conjure his usual quick response in return. "You good Logan?" he queried, he moved his face to reside beside Logan's, a knowing smile enveloping his appearance.

"Yeah, nah I'm fine", his eyes remained transfixed. He spoke up quickly, his arms resting upon his spread legs as his hands were clasped. "Have you guys seen her play before?"

"I mean maybe, but I don't remember these games being that vicious", Tucker responded as he raked his hand through his hair, his eyes meeting with Dean's to note if he was sharing that same knowing look.

"She's fucking incredible".

He watched you with the subconscious hope that somewhere along the changing lines, in the exposure of the arena lights, that somehow you would see how much he was consumed by you even in the far back seating.

The boys had found it humorous that you and your team managed to take up such a fraction of much of their time. Initially intending to sit in on one period of tonight's game as a tasteful distraction from their own upcoming one against the men's team the day after. Instead they became drilled to their seats as wholly absorbed by the match. It was Tucker that had suggested it as a mere possibility under his breath, and Dean found no better idea than to allow Logan to have some time away from his own head. Rather than being caged behind his own presumptions of how Briar's winning strike may suddenly falter - especially as his position as captain - Logan felt now as though he was a onlooker to your own cage, housing a predator who knew how to toy with its prey.

But now, you looked less animalistic to Logan when you skated to the sides of the rink, amused with something one of your teammates had said that had allowed a slight smile to kiss your features. Your hair was stuck to the rest of your skin, adrenaline drenching your face in a thrilling high. Your eyes were lit with a subtle fire that he never wished to put out, only wanting to find home in the flame. He had only known of you for a total of about 45 minutes - it was pathetic.

You were quick to resume position once the 15 minutes of rest haltered, eager to finish the game with a potential win. Your captain had given you a firm pat on the back before you faced the Falcon's centre forward, the playful snarl on her face became more noticeable as the game proceeded. You cautiously watched the puck in referee's hand, a stillness that would have you ambushing the moment it dropped into play.

You held your breath as the puck dropped, quick to have it under your hold. You passed to your teammate once a spot reopened from the opposition's right defensemen, quick to move yourself away from the potential pileup. Your teammate passed onto the team's left forward, the contact of sticks ringing in your ears as the puck scampered to each zone of the rink. You were trying to keep up with the amount of time you had left in the third period, of ' 4 more minutes ', more than you were of your position within the space.

Your ribs found home again on the walls of the rink yet again, shoved mercilessly into the side as you knew your skin would blossom into a gruesome bruise in the upcoming days. Briar's centre forward surely had it out for you in the game, her snarl now contorting to some form of fury. You could hear a muffle of dissatisfaction from your team resting on the benches, and the onlookers alike, slamming her back into the wall yourself as you resumed to the oncoming game. Logan could appreciate your restlessness.

The defence managed to haul off for majority of the game, your left forward operating with the right forward as if clockwork, both of your teammates managing to assist in a final score. The arena lights imbued in a crimson haze over the rink, simultaneous to the eruption of the crowd. The score board flickered a humble 4 second countdown as your team collided in the middle of the ice. The boys were quick to stand, their hands cupping together in a reckless uproar, chanting out to Harvard despite the blue and red decor that hung on from Tucker's and Dean's jerseys.

"Fuck, the girls put on a good fight but Harvard's got it," Garrett muttered, a hand meeting Logan's shoulder as he leaned closer, an attempt to be made clear amidst the chaos of cheering.

"She's got it" he uttered in returned. His eyes opened in awe and triggered his crooked smile, he didn't even have to say who you were to know which player he was talking about. A smirk captured Garrett's face before he knew how to make sense of what he was seeing.

"I mean you should talk to her, maybe you can mention how well she plays" he teased.

Logan continued to fix his vision of only you, planning how he would talk to you already in his head.

"I don't think she needs me to remind her, she knows it".

The adrenaline was still making home within your system as you were unable to shake the smile that had glossed over you, washing you with a warm essence that cut through the violence of your play. You were one of the last to leave the rink having been a little while since the match had ended - determining whether it was time to finally leave the wash of arena lights and to commemorate with the rest of the team. In the mean time you lazily traced figure 8's in the ice; the same patterns you would scratch softly into the back of your palm before a game.

You hadn't looked up in a while before you heard someone clear their throat.

"Fuck how long have you been staring for?" you jabbed, curiosity poised your reaction as your eyes remained fixed on auburn irises.

They darkened when he scoffed a smirk towards the floor away from the illumination of lights; a crooked smile enabling his eyes to crease with a gentleness. You would be lying if you said the guy standing before you wasn't handsome; noting the few loose curls of his unruly hair that fell to frame his face, an effortlessness that subdued his boyish charm. You noted his broad shoulders that coupled with his height, managing to stand above you despite the additional height of your skates. His hands were nested in the pockets of his leather bomber.

"Long enough to say you're pretty good"

The smile met your eyes before you could be subtle. You could notice him analysing you too, his eyes raking over you as he shyly bit his lip, a smirk forming.

"Hey, aren't you the captain for Briar? I've seen you guys play a few times, I admit you're one to watch", you skated towards the edge of the ice, the gate of the rink sitting as a humble middle ground between you both.

"You think I'm one to watch?" he grinned as his cockiness was diluted with his charm, he extended a hand before you, "Logan".

He addresses you by the name on the back of your jersey, hesitant to be invading your territory despite it being within Briar University's own rink. You grinned in return, you thought it was thoughtful that he had taken notice.

You corrected him with your first name. He repeated it back to you, it sounded like such a sweet sound as it made home in his voice - almost as if he too was reminding himself in fear of forgetting the name of the girl who had his chest tightening for the entire match.

"I'll see you for tomorrow's game?"

"What makes you so certain that I'll be there?"

"I know you will".

For once you appreciated the arrogance of a man, amused by his boldness to assure that you too would be watching him as fervidly amidst a sea of onlookers for his upcoming game, as you are in the proximity you both now.

"In fact. If I win, I want you at the party tomorrow where I might see you, like this, again". Your eyebrows furrowed and yet still the smile hadn't left your face. He continued.

"And if you win—"

"I did fucking win. I don't know if you've managed to score anything before, but that was a good fucking win", you somehow managed to get closer to him, the front of your body resting upon the gate.

"I know you did," he murmured in a softer tone, his head lowering to be in closer proximity to yours, satisfied he could get right under your skin. "I mean since you won, I guess you'll just have to see if we manage to score something too."

"I'll be shocked"

"You will be," he moved closer, his eyes never leaving yours, "I'll make sure".

He had walked backwards a few steps, with a sly smile linking with the slight wave he gave you, turning away from the rink. Suddenly you were more piqued for the game tomorrow than you were a few moments ago.

The coolness of the rink failed to provide any lasting relief from the flush of heat that you felt upon your entire body. You managed to find a spot to watch that gave you enough access to see the Briar Hawk's entrance into the game, eager to see what sort of expression or nature Logan would emulate within today's match. Eastwood, much alike the Briar Falcon's the day prior were proving to be notable threats to the reign of both of your successes - but now that you were away from the vicious exposure of the rink, you could keep yourself entertained by Logan's request.

The atmosphere was thickened with the crowd's desire to watch a fair fight, you noticed the myriad of onlookers who had round up for the competition, some adorned in the same blue and red colours and university hoodies. From the echos of the audience and the adrenaline that would rampantly kick in a few minutes before the match, you were keen to see Logan's drive more intimately.

The crowd had introduced you to them before you noticed their arrival. The screams cascading down from the top of the seating all the way to the ones closest to the ring, as you watched the ensemble of Briar Hawk's entering. Number 66, whose cocky smile seemed to run deep within his bones, cheered loudly at the sight of the fans, 'Tucker' skating shortly behind as he seemed eager to have the game over and done with, with how assured he was of a win. More had slotted through that you had quickly washed over, watching them slot into their line positions before you finally caught sight of him.

His gaze was lowered, and you admired how he felt wholly consumed by the game before it had even begun. The Eastwood team skated onto the scene, lining themselves up as the referee prepared for the start. 'Graham' had skated towards the centre the rink and you noticed how Logan's eye line had lifted, not to his competitors but to subtly onlookers who was sitting in on the match.

The puck was in Briar's grasp before Eastwood even had a moment to spare.

The time of the clock followed the pacing of the match as Graham passed to Tucker, nimbly avoiding the aggression of Eastwood's defence as the puck was shortly sent to Logan, finding a short gap against the defence to manage the first score. The crowd erupted just as you did, hands clasping together as a full smile enveloped your expression - so he could score.

You found his ease most amusing, the ability to find himself at full force and no hesitation throughout the match. Darting from either side of the rink, you noticed how more and more he found himself attempting to 'carelessly' funnel through the onlookers - his teammates noticed his unusual hesitation, calling out to him amidst the collision of bodies against the glass. Both your matches in the past few days were pretty gruesome. It wasn't that Logan was falling behind, in fact he was playing much more efficiently than prior, but they wondered what had triggered the change.

It was now the second period and Briar were standing in favour of a 4-2. Garrett's managed the puck in his control, moving swiftly in the neutral zone. His attempt to pass the puck onto Logan fell short when Eastwood's right forward managed to snipe it from him.

"You're good G!" Logan beckoned, quick to follow the forward as Dean managed to retrieve the puck, swiftly landing back in Logan's line of sight.

A loud shove shuddered against the wall, Logan found himself no longer in control of the ice but landing squarely against the edge of the rink. The crowd raged at the contact. Unfortunately acting before he had time to think, Logan's fist came in contact with the cheek of Eastwood's left forward, a slight cut now evident on Logan's lip. As much as violence was nothing to be admired, you did admit it was hot to see how clean the blow was.

Eastwood managed to score whilst Logan's back was turned, the lights imbuing a deep crimson over the arena much like the one that was trickling down Logan's chin. The scoreboard shoved the numbers of 4-3 down Briar's throat as the second period came to a close. The teams returned back for their rest break. Logan's jersey clung to his back as you watched him return back to the wall, holding your breath when he lifted his arm to brush the curls from sticking to his forehead, a gap of his toned torso became expose. He was a sight for sore eyes when he resided back with Dean and Tucker, Logan's eyes were trained on the floor as Dean playfully punched the latter in the arm.

Auburn eyes seemed to remain home in yours.

John Logan had finally spotted you after yet another attempt to frivolously scan through the people, his gaze softened when he had found that you had actually shown. You both shared a knowing smile, unable to determine if it was something sweeter or a playful smirk between the pair. Despite being exhausted from the violent shoves, the cutting through ice, and the strength of the scoring, Logan managed to regain much more of his strength in the final sector of the match.

There were only a few minutes remaining on the clock, Eastwood still being able to possibly manage a tie if they found a way to tear against the tension of Briar. The third sector became a drawn out match of the puck moving between the teams, never finding enough lead to gain either side a score for the period's entirety. Briar was slowly finding a rhythm to their play, working with the quickened pacing of the match. Garrett regained the puck from Eastwood's forward, finding a spot that the left forward and right defence had left exposed for him to send off to Logan. Moving with a sort of effortlessness, you couldn't help but encourage him under your breath.

'Fuck Logan, come on'

Avoiding the final left defence of Eastwood's team, he sent the puck straight into the goal as if a bullseye on a dart board. The crowd erupted in a final applaud, and amongst the moving of bodies and the collision of Briar's team coming to boost Logan's ego for the 5-3 win, he mannered his arms to as if an archer ready to shoot an arrow.

Right directly at you.

You knew what he was thinking. He would get to see you tonight.

He didn't need any pregaming to put him in the mood. The boy's house was a bustling nonsense of hockey players and any one else who was driven by the allure of alcohol and late nights, the scent of musk and liquor carried throughout the house. The music permeated the walls of the house, a makeshift floor inhabiting the bustling bodies that moved in a shameless wonder. Logan found himself at home amidst people, no longer absorbed in fair-weather conversation, or friendly smiles between puck bunnies and mere enthusiasts of the sport, but instead hoping to exchange in more intimate discussion with someone who he was expecting to meet.

His thoughts were disrupted by Dean, making out with Allie on the kitchen counter.

"Logan, isn't she your girl?" he snickered as Allie began giggling beside him, Dean tilting his head to motion towards the living room floor.

Logan let out a slight chuckle before facing himself towards where he was pointing.

He found you from the other side of the room, dancing to the cadence of the music Garrett had rummaged through earlier. There was a natural ease to your movement, much alike how you played on the ice he could see how the music felt home in your bones and percolated grace throughout you. The student bodies around you moving with a similar pulse.

You had felt eyes upon you, moving your gaze to land on the same guy who remained poised in your mind for the past 24 hours. It wasn’t a tipsiness, but enough liquid courage to have yourself staring into his eyes before your knees weakened. The remnants of your drink remained in your hand, you took a sip of the beverage as the taste of liquor fell down your throat, analysing how he moved pass the bodies of people and meeting you in the middle.

You thought he would say something in response. Instead he had looked at the can in your hand, pausing before taking it into his grasp and taking a sip; involuntarily kissing where your lips had fallen earlier and not moving his gaze from yours. Your eyes both coaxing the other to see who might give in first to temptation.

He began to move behind you, his calloused hands resting on your hips and swaying with you gently, he leaned down to fit within the crook of your neck.

"Is this where you want me?" he whispered, you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck. You could feel himself getting harder beneath you.

You turned around to face him, his hands still remaining at your side.

"What's wrong Logan, all bark for the game and no actual bite?"

You didn't know if the alcohol was buzzing within your veins or if the adrenaline was having a hard time wearing off but you couldn't help the feeling that subsided in your core. He managed to get even closer now, his smile something that had you weaker in the knees. His eyebrows playfully furrowed before he spoke.

"You want me to show you?"

He smiled against your lips before kissing you, the taste of liquor still sweet upon his tongue. You moved against one another with a tenderness, something even better than you found yourself imagining in the lead up to finding him here. Logan was the craving you were desiring, holding him with both palms by his jaw as he exhibited a low grunt from you.

He was the first to pull away, you watched as a slight smile developed at how eager you both were. His eyes elicited something more sultry, lowering his speech.

"Not here," he beckoned, his hand clasping your own as he lead you through the house, looking back at you each time you entered a new hallway.

You didn't need long before you resumed, already knowing what to do as he used his back to slam his bedroom door behind him, having you pin onto him in a matter of moments. The kiss was able to become everything you both wanted it to be, manically operating against another with a pure frustration you were not upon each other sooner. His hands gripped your hips as you nimbly moved against him, a moan escaping your lips that earned a slight grunt to bellow from his mouth in return.

He titled his head slightly, enabling you to deepen the kiss as your hands gripped the nape of his hair, fingers desirably raking through his curls. You let out a soft whimper under your breath as he cupped your jaw, pulling away slightly to kiss the corners of your mouth and cascade down from your neck and sternum.

You were responsive to the way he would slightly bite on your tender skin, marking what would surely become love bites in the coming days. A roughened look adorned his features as you spoke.

"Fuck, Logan I've been wanting this", you muttered smiling as Logan came back up to kiss you.

"Tell me what you want baby"

"I want you"

He smiled against your mouth, his hair in such a state that his curls fell to frame his features so gently. He looked so fucking hot. He pushed himself off the door and moved you backwards towards his desk, shoving what remained to fall on the floor as he picked you up slightly to sit upon the table. He worked with you to take off your top, allowing him access to litter kisses down your stomach. Adoring the body that you occupied, he eventually lowered himself to be level with your thighs.

His hands gripped softly at your skin, opening your legs slightly he peppered a kiss on your inner thigh, pulling down your skirt as he moved closer. His fingers moved your panties slightly to the side, slowly allowing two fingers to enter the slick of your core. Praying at the altar that was your hips.

"Fuck" you moaned, your eyes watching fervently as your mouth remained agape.

He began to quicken his pace as he watched you, "you like it?"

You nodded quickly as a smirk painted his expression, he began to hook his fingers as lust dripped from each time he spoke, "use your words".

"Fuck, yes Logan I do", your head tilted back in pleasure, his fingers hitting your spot as your arousal deepened with the contact.

"Eyes on me baby, I wanna see you",

You lifted your gaze to fall back onto him, "I need to feel you". A sudden strength spurred from you as you moved forward to take off his shirt, a slight chuckle escaping his lips as he went to help you remove it. Deep crimson bruises permeated his skin as your nails raked over his toned torso. Your fingers moved slightly further south to his jeans, quickly working to undo the buttons, he stopped you quickly.

"Get on the bed"

You moved slowly to the mattress, slowly removing each remaining garment that was on you as Logan's eyes trekked over your curves, you watched as he did the same, his biceps flexing as he pulled his pants down his thick thighs to be in nothing but his boxers. You sat down on the mattress, moving backwards to lie down as Logan crawled towards you, pinning you down and boxing you in as your lips met once more.

You toyed at the fabric of his boxers, his member hard against your palm as you pulled his undergarments down. Your fingers wrapped around him and began to stroke down his length, his lips escaping a shudder as he closed his eyes.

"Baby, hang on. I want to feel you," he coaxed, waiting for your nod to grab a packet next to his bedside table, using his teeth to pull the condom from its back and slide it down onto himself.

His thigh sat between your own before he aligned himself against you, the initial thrust sending you both into a need for desperate carnality. You both elicited whimpers against one another, your legs moving to hook around his torso and deepen his access, as your nails racked down his back. He quickened his pace against you, overwhelmed by a need to pleasure you as much as himself. He groaned against you, the headboard of his bed colliding with the walls as your cries polluted the room with a neediness that he shared.

"You're so fucking perfect" he murmured into the crook of your neck, placing kisses against your shoulder and collarbone.

His eyes were thickened with lust as your pupils shared the same dilated appearance. The sensation of Logan inside of you became overwhelmingly needed, his thrusts moving to a restless rhythm as you began to move against him. The world beyond the walls of his bedroom subsiding into a careless afterthought of the action between you two. The movement of your bodies felt as though you could hardly determine where one ended and the other began, your hands remaining back in Logan's hair as you kissed him once again, your tongues moving together with the same ease of his thrusts.

Logan exhibited a sense of urgency as his breaths staggered, your pants becoming louder as you were both enclosing on your climaxes. The feeling was drawn out as his hips slammed against you, you felt yourself tightening around him. You gripped onto his shoulders as you removed yourself from his lips, your head falling back onto the pillow as you moaned in pure ecstasy - you were getting close now.

You could feel Logan getting closer too, pushing a few final thrusts as he felt you inclosing in on him, a final cry loosening from your lips as you felt yourself covered in a feeling of complete lust. Your eyes were coated in complete ecstasy as he watched you completely undo before him, shuddering himself as his head landed between the crook of your neck.

The two of you breathed onto each other softly, a short laugh bouncing between you from how content you were. The room returned to a quiet ease, the air sweet with musk and the scent of sex that sent you both into a subdued state. Moving to lie beside you, resting an arm behind the small of your back, Logan spoke gently.

"There was something about you, I just couldn't keep my eyes off of you."

You turned subtly towards him, kissing against his jaw in gratitude. You sat up in the bed, taking the blanket to cover up your lap.

"Logan, I should get going."

He looked at you puzzlingly, "stay for the night".

He sat up slowly too beside you, kissing slowly from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. You couldn't help but smile to yourself.

"I have practice tomorrow"

"I'll drop you off in the morning, promise".

Despite not drinking much the night before, you were glad the River Lethe hadn't poisoned your memory of the night before. The memories of needy movement against one another, the rhythm of bodies, kissing the smile off of John Logan.

You hadn't imagined it would escalate to that point. Then again it was a good way to subside the aches you were feeling in your ribs, and where you were shoved mid game a few nights before. The adrenaline however would not falter, either the high was ecstasy or the man lying beside you, a muscular bicep engulfing you within its frame. 

You found that he too was slowly allowing the dew of the morning to wake him from slumber, a smile kissing his features as he noticed the weight in his arms was still you. Almost fearful that somehow you were a dream that had somehow slipped beneath the cracks. Logan didn't know what drug you were, but he knew he was high on the feeling.

It began to make sense considering how he had responded to your tone.

"Logan, I just want to say. I don't want this to mean anything".

His eyebrows furrowed as he couldn't help but feel a tinge of pain subside in his ribs. More than anything he experienced in last night's match.

"Was it something I did?"

"No, of course not you were, incredible," you giggled beneath your breath. You eventually found the words that were attempting to make sense in your head. "I just think we both can't afford to lose anything. I mean we hardly know each other, we don't need such a distraction."

Logan shook his head beside you, "I mean I'd be willing to do anything to see you again."

You found yourself also willing to do anything to see him again as well, only, you found yourself managing your self control more than the other person who occupied the bed. Your stubbornness would have to get the better of you.

"Give me your phone," you beckoned. Quickly opening his contacts to put in your number and name, "if you ever need anything, or want anything you can text".

He grabbed his phone back and began to type a message. Hearing the notification output softly on your phone you foraged for it, hidden beneath your pile of clothes from the night prior. You opened to find a new message from him.

Unknown Number: when can i see you again? Unknown Number: please.

You looked back at him, a cocky smile returned back to his face as his pupils remained dilated.

"How much time before practise?"

If your brother found out, he would probably skate you into the boards at full speed.

Your brother wasn’t just anyone; he was the captain of the Harvard Crimson, the absolute bane of Briar University’s existence. For three years, your life had been dictated by the color crimson. You wore the merch, you sat in the family section, and you cheered loudly when Garrett Graham or John Logan got leveled on the ice.

Yet, here you were, parked in the gravel lot of a diner halfway between Boston and Briar, the engine of your car idling quietly in the dark.

The passenger door clicked open, introducing a rush of crisp night air and the distinct, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and cold ice. Logan slid into the seat, immediately pulling his baseball cap lower over his eyes. He looked completely out of his element without his hockey gear, wearing a simple black hoodie, but the sheer size of him still filled the small car.

"You're late," you whispered, though there was no real heat behind it.

Logan didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached over, his large, calloused hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you across the console. His lips met yours in a kiss that tasted like stolen time—frenetic, heavy with longing, and entirely too risky. When he finally broke away, his thumb traced your lower lip, his dark eyes intense in the dim dashboard light.

"Traffic," he murmured, his voice a low, rough gravel. "Your brother's boys were doing drills late on the ice. Had to make sure the coast was clear before I hit the highway."

You leaned your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart. "If he sees us, Logan..."

"He won't." Logan’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "And even if he does, I don't give a damn about the rivalry, Y/N. I care about this."

"It's not just a rivalry, it's a blood feud," you sighed, though your fingers were already tangling themselves in the hem of his hoodie. "Next weekend is the Frozen Four. If Briar plays Harvard, you two are going to be trying to kill each other on national television."

Logan let out a low, breathless laugh that vibrated against your cheek. He lifted your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look at him. The cocky, confident smirk he usually wore on the ice was gone, replaced by something entirely too soft.

"Then let him try," Logan said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "On the ice, he's the enemy. But out here? In this car? You're not his sister. You're just mine."

You knew it was dangerous. You knew that if a single sports blogger caught sight of the Harvard captain's sister sitting in a car with Briar’s star alternate captain, it would be a total shitstorm. But looking at Logan—seeing the absolute certainty in his eyes—made the rest of the world fade into white noise.

"Just promise me you won't take his head off next Saturday," you teased weakly.

Logan leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "No promises, sweetheart. But for you, I'll try to keep it out of the penalty box."

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NOTE: this is my very first one shot and just wanted to try posting something so please be gentle ^~^

Anyway, off campus has literally taken over my life since I watched it. I read the books a few years ago (pretty sure I had the same brainrot reaction to the days after I finished the books lol) and loved them… now they’re on TV??? Ahhh