When he pushes inside me, he holds my face in his hands and keeps his eyes on mine. Every thrust saysI'm here.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you.”
He comes with my name on his lips and his arms tight around me, and afterward we lie tangled together.
Hours later, when I wake up, Logan has already left. I pad to the kitchen to make coffee, but he’s already done it. He’s also warmed the croissants.
I smile as I pick up the note on the counter.
You've got this. I love you.
I put Logan's note in my wallet next to the photo of my mother.
27
Logan
Three losses in a row. I’m so fucking tired of losing. The only thing that has gone right for the last three weeks is Jasmine. She’s been my anchor and the reason I haven’t completely given up on my game.
Since the family dinner, we've settled into what I imagined Jasmine and I could be. She comes to my games, and I pick her up from work. We cook dinner together at her apartment or mine and fall asleep in each other's arms, wake up, and do it all over again.
On the days I'm on the road, she texts me before every game and calls me after every loss. She never tells me to snap out of it or get over it. She just listens. That's all I need.
The work situation sorted itself out better than either of us expected. Jasmine sat down with Mabel three weeks ago and told her about the conflict of interest. She didn't give her the full story, but she told her enough — that she and I were childhood sweethearts and that we'd reconnected.
Mabel’s response was that those things happen and that she appreciated Jasmine coming to her directly. She transferred my endorsement file to another associate and told Jasmine therest of the Renegades account was still hers as long as she maintained clear boundaries.
So Jasmine’s work is stable, and our relationship is strong. The hockey is a disaster.
The locker room after the Philadelphia game is a tomb. Nobody is talking or making eye contact. I sit down and start untaping my stick. My back is screaming from a hit I took in the second period. My ankle, the one I blocked a shot with last week, is swollen again.
I played twenty-six minutes tonight, and every one of them felt like thirty.
Mercer comes in and stands in the center of the room. He looks at us and says nothing for a long time. Then he says, “That's three straight, boys. Three games where we didn't compete. I don't have answers for you tonight. Figure it out or the season's over.” He walks out.
Cole stands up and looks around the room. “He's right. We need to figure this out. Everyone go home, get some sleep, and come to practice Monday ready to work. No excuses.”
I shower, change, and drive home. My mind goes to my parents as I head home. The last time they came to a game was three weeks ago, and Dad doesn’t call me with comments and criticism about my game.
Mom hasn't spoken to me properly since the dinner. Two weeks of clipped texts and calls that last under a minute. She hasn’t mentioned Jasmine or the dinner or the grenade I dropped at dinner.
They're punishing me with silence, which is the Shaw family specialty. We don't yell or fight. We just go quiet and let the absence of warmth do the work.
I park outside my building and contemplate the depressing evening ahead. I can’t stand my own company tonight. I turn the car back on and head to Jasmine’s instead.
She buzzes me up. When she opens the door, she's in sweats, and her hair is tied up. She has dark circles under her eyes. I’m sure it’s all the working late she’s been doing.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. Come in.”
She plants a kiss on my mouth and heads to the kitchen. There's a half-empty glass of wine on the counter, and her laptop is open on the island with contract documents on the screen.
“How was the game?” she asks.
“We lost.”
