“Can't tonight. I've got dinner plans.”
“With the team?”
“No, with Jasmine Bennett.”
Mom's smile stays in place, but her eyes change. “I saw her in the family section tonight. She's spending a lot of time at the arena.”
“She works on the Renegades' sponsorship account. It's her job to be here.”
“And dinner? Is that her job too?” My eyes narrow at her. What is she getting at?
Dad shifts his weight and says nothing, which is how I know he and Mom have already talked about this.
“Logan, I'm sure Jasmine is a lovely girl, she always has been,” Mom starts. “But she's a corporate lawyer. She has her own career and her own life. That's not someone who's going to build her world around a hockey player's schedule. You need someone who understands what this life requires.”
“It's dinner, Mom. Relax. I'll call you tomorrow.”
I kiss her cheek, shake Dad's hand, and walk to the players' exit on the other side of the building. The November air hits me when I step outside. I toss my bag in the back seat and pull out of the parking garage, heading downtown toward the West Village.
8
Jasmine
The restaurant is called Luca's. It's a small Italian place on a quiet street in the West Village with white tablecloths and candles on every table. I've been here once before with Clara for her birthday, and the food is excellent.
I'm ten minutes early and seated at a corner table with a glass of water and my phone. The group chat is blowing up.
Avery: So who's the hot dinner with???
Harper:
Natalie: Spill.
I type back:It's not a hot date. Just dinner with Logan.
Three dots appear from every direction simultaneously.
Avery: JUST dinner???
Harper: Girl.
Natalie: The childhood friend?
Olivia: Wait what did I miss?
Avery: Jasmine is having dinner with her hot ex-boyfriend from high school who she claims is just a friend.
I type back:It’s not like that. We’re really just friends. Calm down.
I take a sip of water and check the time. He's fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for Logan.
Then a voice behind me. “Hey. Sorry, I'm late.”
I turn, and Logan is standing at the edge of the table in dark jeans and a cream sweater. His hair is still damp from the shower, and there's a faint bruise on his jaw that wasn't there last week.
He looks incredible, and I hate that he looks incredible because I told four women sixty seconds ago that this is not a date.
“Don't worry about it,” I say as he sits down across from me. “You had the press conference and everything. How was it?”
