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“You deserve this, Dad,” I tell him, seeing how excited he is. “You work so hard. The suite sounds amazing.”
Dad squeezed my hand. “Come on, Francesca Fitzgerald, you can do better than that.”
I roll my eyes. Dad used to call me that because, for a while, my favorite writer was F. Scott Fitzgerald ofThe Great Gatsbyfame, though I enjoyed some of his other works more. “Fine, Dad, since this is your dream trip, the hotel suite sounds amazing.”
Dad chuckles at my deadpan delivery. “You’re not a performing monkey. Okay, I get it.”
But he’s wrong. The moment Logan Ice walks into our hotel suite, I’ll have to perform for Dad and myself. I need to trick myself into believing I didn’t pleasure myself thinking of Logan last night, my dad’s oldest friend and maybe his newbestfriend.
I didn’t twist around in bed, rolling over, trying to sleep, until the need became too strong. I didn’t groan in frustration, then moan in satisfaction, as I slipped my hand between my legs and started rubbing with steamy visions of Logan.
He was on top, leaning back so I could see his broad chest, shoulders, and hair wet like it was on video chat. He was thrusting, and I was rocking with him, my hands buried in his shoulders, feeling his hardness, his power. I was so wet I almost started moaning in my bedroom. I had to bite the pillow.
“This is a surprise,” Dad says when the cab comes to a stop.
I jolt back to reality, reminding myself tostop thinking about Logan Ice!How many times am I going to tell myself that?
I look out the front of the cab and see what Dad’s indicating. A large, dark jeep is parked in the valet slot. Logan Ice is stepping out, wearing a stylish winter coat, zipped up to his chin where the light coating of silver facial hair begins. He’s signing an autograph.
“Should I get out and say hello?” Dad says, suddenly a nervous kid.
“Sure. I’ll settle the cab fare. Go on, Dad, you’ve earned this.”
More people are moving toward Logan, some with their phones aimed at him. Then, one lady does something that almost makes me snap, jump from the car, and slap the pen out of her hand. She’s unzipping her winter coat, presenting her chest to him, waving a pen, and telling him to sign.
CHAPTERTWO
Logan
I look at the woman with distaste. She reminds me of the women my teammates sometimes sleep with. Bright-eyed, overly enthusiastic, and willing to give herself to me right here if I asked. “I don’t sign people’s breasts,” I tell her in French.
She tuts, shaking her head. “Are you trying to humiliate me?”
I swallow. Cameras are aimed at me. It’s always the case, especially when there’s a big game on. I always have to think about the fact I’m being watched. I’m sure there’s some irony there, but my mind is always on the ice. On the stick. The puck. The mechanics. And then what? What after? Am I going to have a family?
“I’m sorry, everybody,” I tell the assembled gawkers.
As I leave the crowd, I sign the autographs for those who waited patiently and then take a couple of photos.
I’m about to enter the hotel when I spot Michael. That brings a smile to my face. Some would call it a rare occurrence, but there’s an issue where my old best friend is concerned. It involves his daughter, and I’d rather not think about it. I’m going to have to see her soon. That’s going to be hard enough.
I wave at Michael, gesturing into the hotel. He follows me. Behind us, I know my security team is climbing from the car, blocking the door. The hotel won’t admit anybody who isn’t staying here, but it still makes me feel low. I didn’t take photos with everybody who deserved it, but staying out there longer would mean giving myself up to others.
Michael seems nervous, wringing his hands. I pat him on the arm. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Logan,” Michael says, glancing outside at my four security guards talking with the woman who wanted me to sign her tits. Jesus. It’s forty-six degrees out there. “You said your daughter was coming, too? My security team can escort her in if you like.”
Michael nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks. She’s getting out of that cab.” He gestures.
I don’t look, not out the window, not at Emma. I know that she’s studying creative writing at college. I know that she’s nineteen. I’ve seen her in the background of the video calls, those wide hips. Once, she was in a tank top with no bra, and I could see those juicy nipples.
Taking out my phone, I shoot a quick text to my security. Two of my men turn from the crowd and walk toward the cab. Still, I don’t look. I can’t look.
“I know I’m early,” I tell Michael. “I wish I could say I could wait for you, but we’ve got some pregame stuff to sort later. I feel like I’m big timing you.”
“Coming from anybody else, that would seem like a subtle putdown, but look at you, Logan. You’re still that kid. Remember the time we played for six hours straight? They had to carry us inside.”
The memory comes to me with stunning clarity. Michael doesn’t know it, but his friendship meant so much to me as a child. For years, he was the one bright spot. I was so scared of going home. I don’t say that out loud, but it’s the truth. “I haven’t thought about that for years. Now that you mention it, it’s like it was yesterday.”
