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Briar enters the final minutes of the game with a two-point lead and a competitor desperate to make up the difference. Logan watches as the opposing goalie skates back toward the bench and an additional attacker hops over the boards. His eyes meet Garrett’s, the shared understanding of it’s not over yet, before lining up around the faceoff dot.
It’s not over yet, but he’s not worried. They’ve played a clean game of completing passes and taking advantage of shot opportunities. He’s even managed to avoid any penalties. (He can’t wait to gloat to you later about that latter fact. Self-satisfied post-win celebratory-drunk grin, hey, baby, I told you I could get through a game without a trip to the box.)
The crowd buzzes with hesitant excitement, rowdy in that old-school barn kind of way. When he skates past the student section, he can faintly hear Jules’s commentary over the thrum.
A shrill whistle cuts through the cacophony, followed by a different kind of noise: the puck smacking down onto the ice and a clattering of sticks. The clock starts counting down.
Shot fired wide and picked back up by someone on the other team. Two minutes left. Logan checks a guy into the boards, the blade of his stick missing the puck by a hair. Another shot, blocked by Briar’s netminder Simms, the opposition quick on the rebound. One minute. Another shot, again.
Then the puck comes loose, Tucker poking it out and flinging it down the ice. Logan seizes the opening, racing after it, a couple of players from the other team hot on his heels. He catches up to it as he crosses the blue line, pulling his stick back then releasing the tension, sailing the puck straight to the back of the empty net. The rink erupts in cheer.
He really can’t wait to gloat to you now.
You’re dancing in the center of the living room with Hannah and Allie. Logan can’t help but stare at the sway of your hips and the delicate curve of your lips as you sing along to some song off of Dean’s victory party playlist. He isn’t sure how long he’s been leaning against the wall, captivated by your every move, but the beer in his hand that he’d pulled from the fridge before settling at the edge of the dance floor is now lukewarm.
Allie leans over to whisper-shout something in your ear and he can just barely hear your glittery laugh over the pounding music. Your head turns, eyes catching his from across the room. The smile you shoot his way dazzles and he has the sudden urge to drop everything and kiss you senseless. He beams back, downs the rest of his beer, discards the bottle on a side table already overflowing with forgotten cups and empty cans, and pushes himself off the wall toward you.
He’s barely taken a step when Jules pops out in front of him. Logan swears in surprise—his hope of joining you on the floor now dashed—but it quickly settles into annoyance. He rolls his eyes, then immediately feels guilty when Jules exaggerates an offended scoff.
“Damn, you look happy to see me,” they joke. “I was gonna compliment your empty netter, but it seems like you don’t want it.”
“No, no, no. I’ll take the compliment,” he recovers. “You just caught me in the middle of something.”
“You mean lurking in a corner pining over a girl?” Jules accuses, throwing a quick glance at you, now hand-in-hand with Hannah, giggling as she twirls you around. “You know that’s your girlfriend, right? You’re way past the yearning stage.”
“Shut up, I wasn’t yearning.”
“You kinda were, man,” a hand claps down on his shoulder and Tucker appears at his side.
“What the- Tuck, not you, too,” Logan grumbles.
“Sorry, bro, it’s the truth,” Tucker puts his hands up in mock-innocence.
Logan glares at him, then back at Jules, who now has that I told you so expression on her face, the one he’s seen countless times after reaping the consequences of many late-night half-baked alcohol-fueled decisions. He rolls his eyes again in response.
When he looks back to the center of the room, you’re no longer there. Neither are Hannah or Allie. Logan lets out a heavy sigh.
He wouldn’t be as frustrated if he hadn’t been intercepted every single time he tried to get close to you tonight.
Logan watches you walk in at the start of the party, dressed in a black halter top and your favorite pair of jeans—his favorite on you, too—glossy lips turning up when you spot him. He stands up from the couch, ready to greet you with a cocky grin and a kiss, and then immediately feels Dean’s arm around his shoulders, dragging him to the kitchen for a victory shot. Fine, the kiss can wait.
The familiar burn of cheap vodka mixes with the adrenaline-high still abiding from hours before. Dean convinces him, with little resistance, to down another. By the time he’s recovered from the acrid sting left behind in his mouth, you’ve disappeared from the entryway.
Later, Logan finds you at the bottom of the staircase chatting to Kendall, but he gets roped into a conversation about next week’s away trip with Garrett and Birdie before he can even consider making a move in your direction. Then, you’re in the kitchen making yourself another drink, but he’s swept to the other side of the room by Tucker to taste-test the canapés he’d been working on perfecting. At one point, he spots you on the couch laughing with Hannah and Dean, but he’s pulled away to help unclog one of upstairs toilets.
His irritation builds each time. Surely, it can’t be this difficult to celebrate a win with his girl.
You’re on the dancefloor, alone this time, when he finally manages to catch you. There are no interruptions, mercifully, thankfully, as he sidles up behind, slotting his hands into the little divot of your waist, the bare stretch of skin between the hem of your top and the waistband of your jeans smooth beneath his palms. It feels too easy, after a full night of trying and failing to get so close to you, but he’ll gladly take it.
Your eyes are gentle and your smile has been softened by the alcohol as you turn to face him, a teasing lilt escaping your lips, “I haven’t seen you in a while.
“Sorry, baby,” Logan chuckles, shoulders relaxing as your arms come up to wrap around his neck, your fingers tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear along the way, “People kept wanting to talk to me.”
“So popular,” you quip. He laughs again.
As you draw him into the rhythm of the music, he takes his time to admire you. In the dim room, the shifting-colored light catches on the hooked shape of his first initial dangling next to yours from a chain around your neck. (An anniversary present that he’s never seen you without since gifting it to you.) His gaze travels across the graceful angle of your jaw, the elegant arch of your eyebrows, the playful curve at the corner of your mouth, and– Oh. Your beautiful mouth, now pressed against his, all-encompassing tenderness and warmth, a lingering sweetness from your last drink. He sinks into it, one hand splaying across your lower back and the other moving up to notch below your chin.
He’s breathless when you part, regaining just enough composure to say, “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”
Without any hesitation, he pulls you back in.
After the party ends, when the downstairs goes quiet and you’ve tucked yourself into his bed, back against his chest and his arm slung lazily over your hip, he remembers what he wanted to say to you in the first place, mouth dipping to your ear, “Notice anything about my penalty minutes?”
You turn over to give him a quizzical look, “There were none?”
“Correct,” he responds, a little too smug for his own good. “I told you I could do it.”
“Sorry I doubted you, baby,” you reply with playful amusement. “Let me make it up to you.”
Then, you’re giggling as you push him onto his back, his hands quickly finding your hips as you prop yourself above him and bring your lips down onto his.