Harper kicks my ankle under the table.
“Ouch,” I cry out.
“Stop eye-fucking the defenseman. People are going to notice,” she says. “The two of you have been doing this all night, and it's the loudest silent conversation I've ever witnessed.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “We’re friends, Harper.”
“Friends don't look at each other like that across a crowded bar.”
I finish my drink. “I need another one.”
“What you need is to go talk to him.”
“I’m okay,” I say, even though I’d love nothing more than to continue our conversation from the bar.
I guess that’s the past Jasmine longing for what was. It’ll take time to adjust to having Logan back in my life as just a friend. But it’ll happen. All I need to do is keep reminding myself that we’re not the same people anymore, and we can only be friends.
Hours later, the night winds down. People start heading off. Liam, Avery, and I head to the bar so he can close the tab with the bartender. Logan and Blake are still at the bar. I give Logan a small wave, then follow Avery and Liam out.
“Goodnight, Jasmine. Text me when you get home,” Avery says and hugs me.
My Uber pulls up just then. I slip inside, and on the ride home, I scroll through my notifications. Then I see a message from Logan.
You look beautiful.
All air leaves my lungs. I check the time when he sent the message. It was hours ago while we were in the bar.
I read the message again. Friends with a past don't text each other that. What am I supposed to say? Thank you? You too? What are we doing, Logan?
I can’t come up with a reply, so I don’t give him one.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, or the way he looked at me, for the rest of the night.
7
Logan
I texted Jasmine from Gordy's last Saturday night, three words that I probably shouldn't have sent.You look beautiful.She read it and never replied. That was a week ago, and I've checked my phone every day since like an idiot waiting for an answer that isn't coming.
I need to get my head right. It's game day.
I turn my mind back to tonight. Tampa Bay's left winger is fast, cuts inside on every zone entry, and likes to pull up at the hash marks for a wrister. Their center is six-four and parks himself in front of the net all the time.
I get up, and go to the kitchen to make my game-day breakfast. Scrambled eggs, oatmeal with blueberries, and two slices of whole wheat toast. I eat standing at the counter with my phone face down.
Game day has a rhythm, and the rhythm doesn't include staring at an unanswered text from a woman I'm supposed to be over.
By seven-fifteen, I'm in my car, heading to MSG. I take the same route every game day. West on 66th, south on Columbus, cut across at 57th.
I put on a podcast about the history of Arctic exploration. A man is describing how Ernest Shackleton kept his crew alive on an ice floe for five months. I like stories about men who survive through discipline.
The facility is empty at eight in the morning, and the lights in the hallway are still on the dim overnight setting. I change in the locker room, lace up my skates, and hit the ice before anyone else arrives.
Morning skate is optional. I haven't missed one in three seasons. I do my warm-up routine in the same order every time. Lateral slides along the blue line. Forward-backward transitions at the circles. Edge work through the neutral zone.
Cole shows up at eight-twenty. He nods at me from the bench and laces up without a word. Blake arrives at eight-thirty and skates over and taps my shin pad with his stick, which is his version of good morning.
By nine-thirty, I'm off the ice and in the training room. Lane, the head athletic trainer, is already set up and waiting for me. We do this three times a week. Soft tissue work on my lower back, some mobility drills. The stretch sequence takes twenty minutes and hurts for all of it.
