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Trent’s brows furrowed and he set his spoon down. “That’s a full contact tournament in the city.”
For a moment there was silence and Logan glanced at Billie. She stared at her wine glass.
“Are you crazy?” Bobbi threw her napkin on the table, her eyes wide. “You can’t play contact hockey.”
“Why not?” Trent asked, a confused look creeping into his eyes. He rubbed his hands along his forehead. “Has something happened?”
Herschel, sensing that things were about to go south, rose from the table and tugged on his son’s arm. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and get that nice ap
ple cobbler out of the oven?”
Trent nodded. “All right.” He rose and paused before following his father out of the dining room. “Is everything okay with you, Billie?”
“I’m fine.”
Logan pushed his bowl away, appetite lost.
Trent glanced around the room. “Well maybe you shouldn’t be playing this tournament after all. You don’t want to injure yourself before heading back to college, now would you?”
“I’ll be okay, dad.”
Logan watched her father leave the room, well aware that the atmosphere had just changed dramatically.
“You can’t play in the tournament, Billie.” Bobbi stood and folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t.”
Logan decided it was time to chime in. Right or wrong, she had to know this was crazy. He turned toward her. “She’s right.”
Her face was blank—for just a moment—and then heat flushed her cheeks as she kicked back her chair and took a step away from all of them.
“I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “And I’ll play if I want to.”
Logan loved her fire. He loved her attitude and drive and…
He swallowed as his heart took off. Holy. Hell.
He loved her.
He loved Billie-Jo Barker.
For a moment he wondered if everyone was staring at him because they could see his heart and soul on his sleeve, but then he realized it was his turn to say something, so he did.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you play in a hockey tournament where there will be a bull’s-eye tattooed to your ass.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s one hell of an ass, but trust me, every hotdog out there will be gunning for it.”
She threw her napkin on the table and gulped another half glass of wine. Jesus, this family drank wine like it was soda pop.
“I’m playing, Logan.”
“No,” he took a step closer to her. “You’re not.”
“Are you kidding me? Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean you get to tell me what I can or can’t do.”
“We should leave, Bobbi,” Gerald muttered, getting up from the table.
“Leave?” Bobbi retorted. “It’s just getting good.”
“What about your concussion?” Logan threw at Billie.
“What about it?” she retorted.
