She spits and rinses. “That's what we do. We show up.”
I get into bed and pull the covers up. The city glows through the windows. My phone buzzes one last time.
Logan: Goodnight, baby. Can't wait to show you my Toronto tomorrow.
I type back:Goodnight. Sleep well. Score a goal for me tomorrow night.
Logan: I'll see what I can do.
I put the phone on the nightstand and close my eyes with a smile.
On Friday morning,I take a cab to Yorkville. The neighborhood is tree-lined and upscale with boutiques, galleries, and cafes with empty patio seating because it's November in Canada. The coffee shop Logan mentioned is on a quiet side street with a green awning and a chalkboard menu in the window.
He's already inside at a table in the back corner, and when he sees me, he stands.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” He pulls me into a hug. He smells like cedar and a masculine cologne that sends heat pooling low in my stomach. “How was last night?”
“We ate our body weight in Japanese food, and Harper drank enough sake to fuel a small country.”
Logan laughs. “I’m glad you girls are having fun.”
He's already ordered me a latte. “So what's the plan?” I ask.
“I have until three before I need to report to the arena. Four hours.”
“Four hours in Toronto. What are you showing me?”
He gives me a boyish grin. “Everything I can fit in.”
After coffee and catching up, we leave the coffee shop and start walking. The November air is cold and bright. Logan takes me through Yorkville first, pointing out restaurants he's been to on road trips, a bookstore he found last season with a first edition he nearly bought, a gallery that had a landscape exhibit he spent an hour in while his teammates went to a bar.
“You went to an art gallery instead of a bar?” I ask with a laugh, even though inside, I’m loving who Logan is.
“Don't tell Liam.”
“Your secret is safe.”
We walk south through the university campus. Students bundled in coats cross the quad with coffee cups and backpacks. Logan tells me about playing the Wailers his rookie year and how the crowd was brutal.
“I was so nervous I almost threw up before warm-ups,” he says. “Seems so long ago.”
“You? Nervous?” I ask.
“I was nineteen, and twenty thousand people wanted me to fail.”
“And now?”
“Now I just want to win. The nerves turned into focus around year three.”
We find a market near the St. Lawrence neighborhood. Stalls selling cheese, bread, pastries, and smoked meats line the market. Logan buys me a butter tart from a vendor who swears it's the best in Ontario. The pastry is flaky and sweet, and the filling is warm and sticky.
“Better than jollof?” he asks.
“Don't push your luck.”
We walk along the waterfront. The lake is enormous, gray-blue and flat, stretching to the horizon. The wind off the water is bitter, and I pull my coat tighter.
