Your problem with John Logan is that not only he is very talented with his hands, but he also looks really fucking hot putting them to good use, even if it’s not how you imagined him to.
“It seems to be a compressor issue,” he says, wrist deep into your car’s engine as he inspects it, “Could be only electrical, but you should definitely check the clutch as well.”
You hum, slurping on a milkshake as you sit behind the wheel, “I think you mean you should check the clutch,” you say, a teasing bite in your tone that makes his lips curve in a subtle smile, “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can,” he says, reaching up to grab the car hood.
Logan keeps his hands up there, his undershirt riding up just enough for you to see his midriff skin. You can’t tell if it’s intentional, but if the smirk on his face is any indication, he knows what he’s doing, “It’s not like you to be the damsel in distress type.”
You drag your eyes up again, “Yeah, but I don’t even know what a clutch is, so.”
“Fair,” he says, slamming down the car hood. He barely cleans his hands before swiping them over his forehead, failing to get rid of the sweat, “Would you take it inside? I’ll drive it to the autoshop tomorrow, first thing in the morning— It’s just too fucking hot today.”
You shrug, putting the sweaty cup aside as you shut the car door closed, turning the key. The heatwave that has been terrorizing Massachusetts was the sole reason for you to beg Logan for him to check why your AC wasn’t working, and it’s making it impossible for anyone to be outside, especially doing handwork like he is. It’s only fair that you allow him the comfort of doing it later at the shop.
So you wait for him to open the door for you and back into the boy’s garage, a room big enough to fit a bunch of boxes, training equipment, a little sink where Logan now washes his hands and all four of their cars, though right now only Logan’s pickup truck is there.
“You’re home alone?”
Logan hums, “Dean’s in New York with Beau, Tuck and Garrett went to Boston for the weekend.”
“Oh, Boston’s so nice this time of year,” you say, “Very windy. Didn’t you want to go with them?”
“Hm, I– Couldn’t.” he clears his throat, opening the passenger door, “Turn the AC on for me? I wanna hear the noise.”
“Yes, sir.” You say, watching the left corner of his mouth twitches slightly, just enough for you to catch it.
It’s fun to flirt with Logan, you think. There’s a tension in the air between you two, always present. In your lingering touches under innocent hugs, sustained eye contact during casual conversations — always, always there, like fog surrounding your true intentions. But in moments like this, when you’re all alone and there’s no way around it, where you feel the hazyness clearing up and your feelings growing stronger, a pull from your guts in his direction.
You keep thinking he feels it too, wondering if the raggedy noise coming from the AC is the only reason why he’s sitting next to you on the passenger seat.
“Oh, that’s fucked,” he says, eyes widening in a way that makes you bite back a laugh. He turns the AC off again, “Yeah, I’ll definitely check the clutch tomorrow.”
You groan, head dropping onto the headrest. “This is awful.”
He chuckles, “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It's bad timing. Summer has just started— We have a new heatwave coming every other week.”
“And I’ll get it checked before Monday.” He says, his hand dropping on your shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring way, “Just chill, alright? I’ll fix that.”
You look up at him, eyes traveling up his arms until they find his face, his big eyes staring at you in all their glory, no hair falling on them since it’s all pulled back under a red bandana, a smear of grease right below it being the cherry on top.
You smile, your own hand moving to his face, thumb pressing on his forehead to smudge it clean. Your fingertips move down to his under his jaw, “You look nice in a stubble,” you mutter, “Frames your face.”
Logan relaxes under your touch, his eyes closing, “I was going to Boston too,” he says, voice barely there.
“Hm?”
“With Tuck and Garrett. I was going with them this morning,” he says, head moving so his chin rubs against your palm, a gentle tickling, “Then you called, and– Well.”
“Wait,” you feel your breath catching, “You stayed back just to help me?”
“Yeah.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing for him to do, because it might just be, “It’s you, y’know?”
Your thumb stops moving across his cheek, staying still as you process what he just said. It’s such a show of his attention towards you, that just like that, the fog that once hid your feelings has now lifted completely — you see Logan clearly in all his intentions, and you desperately want to kiss him.
Your other hand moves to grab his face too, pulling him to you.
Logan keeps his eyes shut, but he finds your mouth quite easily, like the image of you it’s printed on his memory. He bends over the console, pressing his lips to yours as his hand moves to the back of your head, keeping you close to him as you kiss, and kiss, and kiss, his mouth moving from your lips, across your cheek to your ear, “Baby,” he murmurs, “come here.”
His hands move to the small of your back, urging you to lift up from the driver’s seat and cross over the car center, your knees on the passenger’s seat astriding him.
Logan wraps his arms around you, moving up to get his mouth onto yours again, desperate.
“Been wanting this since forever,” he mutters against your lips, a line of open mouth kisses under your jaw and down to your neck. You throw your head back, mouth gaping as you let out a delicious groan. Logan smiles between kisses, “That good?”
“Shut up,” you answer through gritted teeth.
Your hands drop to the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling it up under Logan’s stare, his rough hands caressing your sides. Your fingers move to the back of his neck, lifting his head for him to look at your face, “Just keep kissing me?”
He nods, blown eyes watching your every expression as he takes his own shirt off, the loose bandana falling off his hair with it. You giggle at his urgency, your laugh turning into a gasp as Logan runs his tongue against your collarbone, pressing kisses on your cleavage.
Logan’s hands grab your waist, guiding your hips front and back, pressing you against his lap. He uses your jeans seams to his advantage, the friction nearly driving you insane, your moans driving him insane. “Fuck,” he murmurs, and you kiss him again, thrusting, “fuck, honey.”
“Logan,” you pant, “Logan, please.”
“Please what, baby?” He says, chin resting on your chest as he stares up, “Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you, anything.”
You groan, his hips jumping up, “Logan, ah– Please, fuck me?”
His head drops to your shoulder, a warm breath hitting your skin as he huffs, “Fuck, yeah. Yeah, honey. Lift up for me?”
You hover over his lap, his talented fingers finally to good use. Not any tools, not your stupid car engine, but quickly undoing your jeans and pushing them down, just enough for him to fit his hand.
Logan moves his thumb over your panties until he finds your clit, rubbing in slow circles as your eyes flutter closed, a raggedy sound coming out of your mouth, “Logan, babe–”
He shushes you, a quick peck on your lips, “Let me have you like this for a second,”
he mutters, “Yeah? Just watch you for a moment.”
You nod, head dropping to his shoulder. Logan uses his pointer to pull your panties aside, middle finger finding your slit, “You’re soaked, baby,” he says, and you whine.
“You’re such a fucking tease, did you know that?”
He chuckles, “I’ll stop,” he says, but god, you don’t want him to.
You feel a tightness building your underbelly, a fire that moves down your body growing stronger with every one of his touches, and it all feels so fucking good, you think you could melt with it.
Logan takes his hand out of your jeans, hand on your thighs to lift you again, “Gotta take these out, yeah?”
You hum, watching as he pulls your jeans and panties out, then moves to undo his pants as well, “You have a condom?”
“Uh,” he looks around, eyes widening, “In my wallet, but it’s inside the house, I think.”
You twist around to face the dashboard, opening the glove box. “I might have some.”
A surprised laugh escapes his mouth, “You keep condoms in your glovebox?”
“I keep hygiene utensils in my glovebox. It just happens that condoms are one too.” You answer, “What about a thank you instead?”
Logan presses his lips on your upperarm, “Thank you so fucking much, really,” he says, taking the condom out of your hands and ripping it open, “You sure you wanna do it?”
“Yes,” you sigh, “Yes, pl—”
He kisses you again, swallowing your plea. He won’t let you say it, there’s only so much teasing he can do. Logan presses into you, hands guiding you down slowly.
It’s like throwing gasoline into the fire in your pit. You moan against Logan’s lips, his mouth opening up to kiss you. You keep moving your hips while he helps you with your slow, steady pacing, until that won’t do anymore.
“Logan,” you whimper, “faster, please.”
His hands squeeze your sides, panting with you, “Oh, fuck, baby–”
“Faster?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, “Just— Fuck,”
Your hands go for his shoulders for balance, and you start moving faster and faster. Logan’s head drops as he lets out a moan, “Babe—”
“I know,” you say, lips pressing against his entire face in clumsy, wet kisses, “Please, I’m close too.”
He starts thrusting harder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep your bodies joined completely, nose pressed against your neck. You feel the warmth overtaking you, your legs faltering as you wail out Logan’s name, mouth sinking down on his, a deep kiss as he follows you down the fire.
It takes a more gentle touch from him to pull you from your blissed out state, “Baby,” he mutters against your skin, “You okay?”
You hum, cheek pressed to his shoulder, “Fucking great.”
“Yeah?” Logan’s half-moon eyes stare down at you. Laying down on the car seat, he maneuvers you to join him, pulling you in an improvised cuddle on such a limited space.
Logan brushes his fingers over your cheek, a peck here and there, “If you want to,” he starts, “We can go inside, maybe take a shower.”
“Yeah, well, you’re still greasy,” you answer, and Logan laughs, rubbing his face against your arms as if to pass it to you. You yelp, pushing him gently, then saying in a softer tone, “In a minute, yeah? I’d like to lay here for a minute longer.”
His lips turn into a smile, “Yeah. I’d like that too.” He says, resting his chin on your shoulder, “Stay the night too?”
“Yeah. Of course,” you say, pulling his hand for a kiss, “But we’re driving to the shop in the morning. Next time I want the AC on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mutters, then lifts his head a little, “Do you still have that milkshake lying around? I could use a sip.”
You giggle, thinking the poor thing’s probably all melted now. Not that you’re much different.
notes: thank you for reading! i'm still a bit stiff with writing smut so please be nice to me. requests are open, likes reblogs and thoughts are appreciated! <3
You and John have spent every summer together since high school, but something about this one feels different.
warnings: 18+ fluff, flirting, tension, yearning — so much yearning, mentions of past trauma (john), making out, dry humping :), a little mixture or book and show Logan.
wc: 5.3k
authors note: Hi! this is my first John Logan fic. I’ve been working on it for a few weeks now, and it helped me get out of a month of writers block. I’m pretty proud of the way it turned out. I hope you enjoy. 💕 I comment and follow from my main @loveshotzz
The diner was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that only happens when the weather outside demands the small population of Munsen to spend a day at the lake. You watch the tiny hand on the black kit-cat clock that hangs half hazardly on the wall slowly land over the bold number seven. With a loud click its eyes open and shift from side to side. The early evening rays shine golden through the glass paint on the front windows that rattle off this week's specials in sloppy cursive. Small specks of lint dance in the air from wiping down every possible surface, the faint smell of lemon cleaning solution lingering in the empty restaurant.
Leaning against the cream colored linoleum counter top, you prop your chin in your hand, gaze dropping back down to the book you’ve been reading to pass the time. You only get two sentences in before the bells hanging over the front door interrupt you with their familiar chime. Tearing your attention away from the dog eared page, the steady beating of your heart stutters meeting the deep brown eyes that belong to your favorite part about summer break.
John Logan.
The smile that he greets you with pushes up his dark stubble covered cheeks, crinkling the soft tan skin under his big round eyes. Their deep chestnut is brighter in the daylight, amber swimming inside illuminating the dark edges. His tall frame takes up the small space next to the host stand, broad shoulders exposed under his white grease stained tank top. The sleeves of his brown jumpsuit are tied around his narrow hips, the baggy legs of it framing his black work boots. He runs a big hand through his dark hair that’s gone curly at the ends from the heat, the faded caramel tips standing out more from his time in the sun.
“I’m interrupting a very busy day, I see.” He grins, one side of his mouth ticking up.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to get you a table.” You shrug, biting your bottom lip to hide your own growing smile, stomach flipping catching the way his eyes track the movement.
“Not even for a Briar U athlete?” He presses, slowly closing the space between you. “You know I’m a forward, right?”
“Actually, hockey players have to wait extra. Right hand forwards specifically.” Straightening your posture, you tilt your head up to meet John’s eyes that sparkle with amusement.
Summer, grease, and the leftover spice of his cologne invade your senses when he stops right in front of you, the tips of your white keds brushing the steel toe of his boots. Leaning his elbow against the counter with a blinding flash of teeth, your fingers itch to push back his hair that flops back down, framing his face.
“Is that so?” He asks with a hum, eyes trailing over your face before dragging your book closer with the pads of his fingers. Logan reads the cover, the corners of his lips twitching before bringing the full weight of his attention back to you.
“But what if this hockey player isn’t trying to get a table? What if he’s trying to see if he puts in a to-go order at the new burger spot, that maybe a certain waitress might want to have dinner with him on top of the water tower after work?”
Warmth spreads across every inch of your skin at the hidden intention behind his question. There’s always been a subtle attraction between the two of you that started a few years ago, or at least when you noticed it existed, but last summer something shifted. You’re not sure when it happened or what specific moment changed everything. All you know is that this summer feels so much different than all of the rest.
“Oh really? Is that why you’re here?” You tease, jutting out your hip with a raise of your eyebrow.
“Yes, really.” He rolls his eyes playfully, pushing himself back up, moving one foot between yours. Black stained finger tips reach down, straightening out one of your rings before bringing his dark eyes back to yours. “So, what do you say?”
Fingers curling softly around his, there’s an electric current sparking inside the light touch. You give them a gentle tug and John’s pink lips stretch over perfect white teeth. He leans closer, turning your heart beat into a jackhammer, thrumming in your ears so loud that you wonder if he can hear it. Licking your lips, heat blooms across your body watching his gaze follow the bob of your throat.
You both know the answer before it even leaves your mouth.
“Pick me up at 8:00.”
Sherbet pink kisses the edges of the dark violet, swallowing up the rest of the sky by the time John’s truck chugs into the diner’s parking lot. He leans over the cabin, pushing open the driver side door before you have a chance to do it yourself. Syrupy eyes trail over the curves of your body no longer covered by a work uniform causing butterflies to migrate, fluttering along your rib cage at the look on his face that can only be described as enamored. Half way through the summer, these nightly rendezvous have become a regular thing, and the change of clothes you always stuff inside your duffle started to get picked from your closet with more and more care.
“Hey.” He breathes pushing his freshly washed hair back, the humidity keeping his curls still thick at the ends.
“Hi.” You reply shyly, eyes raking over his change of clothes, setting your bag down in the empty bed of his truck.
A short sleeve brown button up sits open, revealing the black tank top underneath. His silver chain hangs loose off his neck shining against his tan skin, landing just over the dip of his pecs. Dark wash denim fits snug to his thighs, stretching across the trained muscles in a way that dries up your throat, the cuffed ends framing the white tips of his converse. John’s always been handsome, but the past two years at college have turned him broad and lean. Jaw line a little sharper, facial hair a little thicker.
“I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.” You tease, fingers wrapping around the handle lifting yourself into the truck.
He looks confused for a moment, before his gaze lands on the bright green numbers on the dashboard.
8:03pm
“Wow, I didn’t realize I had you waiting for so long.” He says with the kind of disappointment that almost feels real, jutting out his bottom lip. “Can you forgive me?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Buckling yourself in with the smallest twist of your lips, you pretend to be nonchalant with a roll of your eyes.
“Ah, I forgot. You looove to hold a grudge.” John laughs, shifting the truck into drive, clearly remembering the one you still hold against the boy you’ve both known since high school.
“If you’re talking about Joey Buckingham. Yes, I still hate him.” You beam proudly, meeting his eyes from over the to go order sitting on top of the familiar plaid blanket he brings every time.
“I am very aware.” He grins, something a lot like adoration flickering behind his gaze as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I’ll give that one to you though, that dude was always such an asshole.”
“Exactly!” You exclaim with a giggle and a loud vindicated clap. Secretly relishing in the way it makes his face light up. “And it’s not past tense, he still is.”
”Oh, you guys are still close friends?” John’s goading is obvious despite his perfected serious expression, but you take the bait every time. Mostly just to hear his laugh.
”Shut up Logan, or I’ll put you on my list right next to him.” You huff with a cross of your arms, earning you the exact sound you wanted to hear.
Rolling to a stop at the red light, he flips his turn signal just in time for it to change green. His hand moves back to the stick shift, adjusting it into the next gear, lurching the truck forward down the dirt path that leads to the tower. He keeps his hand resting on it, so close that his fingertips brush softly against your knee with every bump in the road. Digging your teeth into the fat of your bottom lip, you try subtly scooting yourself closer, searching for more of his touch. Selfishly, you consider tossing the food separating you right out of the window because it would be worth it to go hungry.
John seems to pick up on it, studying you like he’s not sure if he imagined it or not from the corner of his eye. You swallow the butterflies trying to flutter out of your throat, meeting his gaze a little shy — a little unsure. A silent exchange floats in the thickened air of the cabin, a quiet reassurance that he did not imagine anything. Licking his lips, one side of his mouth pulls up bringing his attention back to the road.
There’s a brief moment of panic like maybe you’ve been reading this wrong all summer. The thought tightens in your chest, but before you have a chance to fully spiral, the rough warmth of John’s palm covers the soft skin of your thigh. Right below the cotton hem of your shorts. Goosebumps pebble under his touch, even more sprouting under the gentle brush of his thumb that dips under the fabric with every swipe.
“Are you going back to the hockey house tonight?” You ask, cutting through the tension with a shaky voice, nerves threatening to get the best of you as you desperately try playing it cool.
”Tonight? Oh — uh no. I’ve got some stuff to do in the shop tomorrow morning. And um -“ Logan’s eyebrows furrow, keeping his gaze focused through the windshield, the swipe of his thumb never faltering. “I’ve also got to get some things to get in order at home. Mom’s getting discharged out of rehab in a few days.”
There’s a heaviness that fills the small space that you can see the weight of in the way his shoulders slouch and jaw clench because this is the fifth time that sentence has left his mouth since you’ve known him. Reaching down, you thread your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“I didn’t realize it’s been three months already.” You whisper, running the pad of your thumb over his knuckles. “How are you feeling about it?”
John lets out a sigh that’s laced with years of instability and exhaustion. The sound has you desperately wanting to take it from him, absolve him of the responsibility even just for one night.
“I want to say I’m happy. I know Jules is.” He pauses for a moment, squeezing your hand back before letting it go to shift gears, as you get closer to the tall metal structure.
“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in there.” You smile weakly, already missing the happy boy from just a few minutes ago.
“Buuut,” he starts, appeasing you, the corners of his mouth tugging up gingerly as he pulls into your usual spot behind the trees. “I just can’t go into this again without wondering how long she’s going to last this time.”
His quiet confession has you reaching for him again, bringing those big brown eyes to yours. So much swirls around inside of them, darkening the gold just like the sky, but even in the blanket of black, there’s still the hint of stars shining through. A small part of him clinging to the hope that always seems to find its way back in, that maybe it will be different this time.
“She’s lucky to have you. All three of you.” You add, including the brother that seems to only come around when John’s gone, only getting a small nod in return.
“Y-yeah.” He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair trying to shake the unwanted feelings off, giving you a toothy smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t know about you but I’m hungry. Should we start heading up?”
John gestures towards the rusted white tower next to you, the dim lights shining below it adding to the structure's intimidating height.
“Yeah, let’s go.” You grin, fingers wrapping around the plastic loops of the small to-go bag you snuck inside. “I also may or may not have snuck you a slice of apple pie.”
The heaviness that weighed down his features lightens its load, brightening his handsome face.
“You buttering me up for something?” He asks with a suspicious grin.
“What? Me? I would never.” Scoffing, you refuse to meet his eyes grabbing the rest of the food to hide your smile.
“Oh yeah?” John laughs, raising his thick brows in playful disbelief.
All you want to do is bottle up the sound, this version of him, so you can listen to it on bad days after you both leave to go back to your separate lives after summer ends.
“I’ll get the reason out of you, I always do.” The edges of his lips curve as he swipes the blanket off the seat climbing out of his truck. “Regardless of the ultimatum, thank you, gorgeous.”
That’s…new.
Walking ahead of him, you tug your bottom lip between your teeth working up the courage to try something new too. Tossing him a flirtatious look over your shoulder, you make sure to look at him from under your lashes.
“Anytime.”
It’s impossible not to hear his sharp intake of breath, or how close he trails behind you with every crunching step of his converse. Heat spreads across your body like a wildfire because of it, crawling up your neck to your cheeks only getting worse when you feel his hands wrap around your waist once you reach the ladder. His long fingers flex around your hips, giving them a squeeze before stopping you from going any further.
That’s also new.
”Give me the food. You’re too clumsy not to use both hands.” He chuckles softly next to your ear.
”Doesn’t feel like you have a lot of faith in me, Logan.” You tut, craning your neck to meet his eyes.
”I’ve seen you trip on air. I’m not taking any chances.”
Pulling you close enough for your back to hit his chest, the tip of his nose brushes against your ear sending a shiver down up your spine. One of his hands leaves your hip, calloused fingertips ghosting down your arm sending goosebumps pebbling in their wake. He takes his time, like he’s taking full advantage of this moment in case it doesn’t happen again. The quick beating of his heart thumps against your back matching the one inside your chest, pulling at the edges of your lips. He softly tugs the bags from your grasp, giving your hip another squeeze before taking a step back.
”Alright, let’s get you up.”
It takes you a few seconds to snap out of the haze of being so close to him, your lungs slowly waking up, remembering how to work.
“I want you to know that I would’ve carried it up there perfectly fine.” Turning around to face him, you cross your arms over your chest.
”Just a safety precaution, that’s all.” He appeases with a shrug, but you know he’s doing exactly that, so your stare narrows.
”Mmhm.” You hum shortly, fighting the smile that's threatening to give you away. John sees it though, something knowing his eyes when he clocks it. “So how are you going to climb up there with both the blanket and the food then?”
All he does is grin before slinging the blanket over his shoulder, and sticking the handles of the bags between his perfectly white teeth.
”Like this.” He argues with a full mouth, opening his arms as if it proves his point.
”Yeah, cause that’s safe.” You snort with a roll of your eyes that just makes his sparkle. “If you drop our dinner, I’ll make sure you never hear the end of it.”
John salutes you sarcastically, gesturing towards the ladder like he’s impatient, trying his best to rile you up more. You shoot him a glare that doesn’t hold any venom before turning around. Wrapping your hands around the first bar that hangs over your head, John’s find their way back to your hips, giving you a gentle boost. You try not to overthink it, despite the way your skin seems to pulse where he touched. Making your way up the chipped painted metal, you can feel the heavy weight of his stare the whole way up to the top.
The wind whips wildly around you once you reach the landing, that familiar swoop in your stomach making itself known at the realization of just how high up you are. Gripping the railing, you focus on the small town glowing below trying to settle your growing feelings for John that don’t have anywhere real to go. Stars shimmer above you, sparkling inside the midnight blue contrasting with the warm golden light of the houses not nearly bright enough to pollute the sky like the city does. Inhaling a deep breath of what feels like a perfect summer night, you close your eyes and let it sit in your chest, willing your brain to commit this moment to memory.
Commit John to memory.
“As much as I can’t stand this place.” He sighs quietly, coming up next to you, interrupting your thoughts that only seem to be about him. “It’s really fucking pretty from up here.”
A gust of wind blows the spiced amber of his cologne in your direction, and the sweet bitterness of grease from the day that's still hidden underneath his nails.
”Careful John, I might think you’re going soft for Munsen.” You tease with a grin, finally looking up at him from the corner of your eye.
“Some parts of it.” He admits, holding your gaze as his pinky wraps around yours.
Heat blooms on your cheeks and crawls up to the tips of your ears at what he’s insinuating. Swallowing hard, you curl yours around his too, holding him tight for just a moment.
“Yeah, me too.”
Licking his lips, that same smile he greeted you with diner earlier breaks out across his face, shining bright just like the moon above you. Once he realizes that he’s just starting, he clears his throat, straightening his posture before gesturing to your usual spot on the landing.
“Shall we?”
It doesn’t take long for the two of you to devour the burgers and fries that were still somehow warm. Or the slice of apple pie that John insisted you share, feeding you every other bite with hooded eyes that made you squirm. Sitting with full belly’s and your backs against the warm metal of the tank, every inch of your body is pressed to his, turning your skin electric. John’s hand rests on his thigh, close enough to feel whatever has been bursting at the seams begging you to let it flourish. But the nerves of misreading whatever this is and the impending end of summer, has hesitation revealing itself in the light tap of his fingers against the denim of his jeans instead of lacing with yours.
“I’m off tomorrow.” You start, tearing your gaze from the sky to meet his eyes, only to find they're already fixated on you. Roses bloom on his cheeks getting caught, a sheepish smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
“Well, I’m very happy for you.” He laughs quietly, with a supportive squeeze of your thigh that drips in sarcasm.
“Shut up, you didn’t let me finish my thought.” You giggle shoving his shoulder playfully, and when he bounces back he’s somehow closer.
“I just — you know, in case you —.”
Suddenly all the confidence about what you’re about to offer disappears. A new fear that maybe you’re over stepping takes its place, but it’s too late back down now. You’ve always been a shit liar.
“I just mean, if you want some help tomorrow. I’m free.”
The silence that falls between you feels quieter than most, tightening your chest with anxiety. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, you try to read the series of emotions that flash across his face, noticing that anger isn’t one of them.
“That’s um — that’s really nice of you.” He finally says with a soft voice.
His brows knit together, staring down at his lap, he loses himself in his thoughts for a moment before bringing his eyes back to yours. The depths of them swirl with all the selfless excuses to do this on his own just like he’s done his whole life.
“But, I wouldn’t want you to spend your day off like that.” John stubbornly tries to wave off the idea, but you stop it before it even has a chance to start.
“I want to.” You cut him off quickly with the kind of unmistakable sureness in your voice that it seems to knock down a little more of the brick wall he’s built around his family dynamics.
“Yeah?” He asks like he can’t really believe it, like help has never been an option before.
“Yeah.”
Smiling, you decide to be bold and do what you’ve both been tiptoeing around since finishing dinner. You lace your fingers with his. Leaning his head back against the tank, he turns his face towards yours. He’s so close that the heat of his breath fans against your lips that want him even closer. It would be so easy too, just the slightest tilt of your chin.
“So when are you gonna transfer to Briar?” He grins, a little starry eyed pulling your hand on his lap, letting the calloused pad of his thumb brush over your knuckles. “We could hang out all the time.”
“Oh my god.” You try to laugh off the question he’s asked almost every week this summer. A question you won’t tell him you’ve started to think about a little more seriously. “When are you gonna let that go?”
“Never.” He winks, licking his lips, gaze dropping down to yours, making you feel fizzy and light, the air shifting turning it thick in your lungs. Leaning your head towards him with a shy smile, the whites of his teeth peek out just for you.
“You wouldn’t have time to hang out with me, mr. hockey man.” You whisper, eyes sweeping across his face, lingering longer on his mouth.
“I’d make time. For you.”
His insistence feels like firecrackers, heart skipping two beats.
“John —“
“Just think about it.” He murmurs, so close now that the tip of his nose runs up the bridge of yours. Feather light and barely there, it has you forgetting how to breathe.
“I will.” You say reluctantly, trying not to show just how close you are to giving into the fantasy that maybe you two could be like this all the time.
Licking his lips with swelling pupils, his gaze stays trained on your mouth, chestnut eyes flicking up asking silent permission from under the thick hood of his lashes.
“That’s all I want.”
There’s a new air of confidence about him that hasn’t been directed towards you like this before. His other hand reaches towards your cheek, fingertips gliding along the warmed skin before cupping the apple of it. Your breath hitches at the new contact, lashes fluttering as your body leans into him all on its own. He lets go of your hand to find purchase on the metal landing behind you, angling his body towards yours he becomes the only thing in your line of vision, blocking out the rest of the world. You tilt your chin up at the same time he bends down, closing what little space is left.
Plush pink lips cover yours, soft and tentative, moving with the kind of care that tells you he wants this to be good. Like he’s been thinking about this moment, desperate to get it right. Your fingers bury themselves into the thick locks at the nape of his neck, weaving through the curls twisting the ends. It’s all he needs to take control of the kiss, turning it into something deeper. Licking at your bottom lip, he begs you to let him do it.
There’s no hesitation in the way you grant him access, the tension that’s done nothing but build over the course of the last two summers breaking free from the restraints you’ve kept it in when your tongues finally meet in the middle. John groans at the new contact, exploring your mouth with an eagerness that’s contagious. You tug at his roots doing the same thing, massaging his muscle with your own, languid and slow, tasting every inch of him.
“Fuck.” He breathes, breaking away for just a moment to collect himself. Chest heaving just like yours.
His hand leaves your cheek to tenderly grip your chin, holding your heavy lidded gaze inside the darkness of his, letting everything linger in the middle of your parted mouths.
“Come here.” His request is gentle but firm, guiding you without much effort onto his lap.
Your knees bracket his narrow hips, the cotton of your shorts riding further up your thighs, squirming at the way John’s eyes track the movement. His hand squeezes the soft fat of one on its way up to curl around your hip using it as leverage to tug you even closer. The other hand that grips your chin, pulls you back down towards his lips, while your palms slide up his broad chest, settling on the hard muscles of his shoulders. His kiss bitten lips stretch, showing his white teeth in a way that shouldn’t be so charming.
“What?” You breathe, nudging his cheek with the tip of your nose.
“Nothing.” He hums, letting his full top lip catch against the soft pout of your bottom one. “You’re just really pretty, that’s all.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
You dismiss him with a teasing edge to your voice, fingers finding their way back into the thick silk of his hair, fully aware of the puck bunnies at Briar U.
”It’s different with you.” He confesses, the deep pools of his eyes giving all his secrets away like they always do.
”Yeah?”
The one word question comes out shyer than it should perched on his lap like this. But it’s hard to ignore how everything feels as if it’s on the precipice of changing into something new. Something unknown.
“Yeah.”
Letting go of your chin, John takes that as all the permission he needs to collect your lips again. His big hand splaying across your cheek, the pad of his thumb coaxing the corner of your mouth open so he can taste you. This kiss is assertive, completely sure, almost claiming, doing his best to prove it to you.
Tugging at his roots, you use him as leverage to pull yourself close enough for your chests to touch, John’s arm loops around your waist in an iron clad hold, keeping you there. His mouth moves like he’s trying to devour you, like he has to take it all so no one else can have it. Your teeth nip at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue, earning a groan from the back of his throat that only spurs you on. With a subtle roll of your hips your body persuades another one out of him, and you decide right there and now that this is your favorite sound.
A gust of wind hits the side of the tower, a slight chill hidden inside of it that sends goosebumps pebbling along your skin, only getting worse when John’s hands slip up the back of your shirt. It’s his turn to shift his hips, lifting them up, he smiles into the surprised gasp that leaves your mouth at the feel of him. He doesn’t hesitate to do it again, desperate to see if the next one might be his name. It is.
You grind against the length of him with the kind of pressure that makes his kisses stutter, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the soft curve of your back. Warmth spreads between your legs, thighs squeezing his hips feeling the way he shudders underneath you. It makes you wonder what he’d look like doing that from above you, that silver chain hanging in your face.
“John.” You whimper, fingers gripping his curls, lips searching for him.
“Baby.” He breathes with a smile, pressing a wet kiss to your mouth, pulling away only after stealing two more. “As much as I want to keep going — and god, do I want to keep going. We should get back to solid ground first.”
As if on queue, another gust of wind rattles the metal railing and you swear you feel the tower sway this time. Dropping your forehead against his, John laughs at your irritated groan, hand curling around the back of your neck pulling you in for another kiss, letting this one linger.
“Fine.” you grumble against his mouth, nudging your nose with his before climbing off his lap in a huff.
His hands refuse to leave you until they have to, finger tips dragging along your skin till you’re standing up. Those big brown eyes stare up at you from under the thick hood of his lashes, drinking you in like it’s the first time today, admiring the way you’re all wrinkled and mussed because of him. Standing up, he grows another foot or so above you, wasting no time to pull you in by your hips. Your hands fall easily on his chest, feeling the way his muscles still dance with nerves underneath your palms.
“Tomorrow, after we do all that boring stuff. Let me take you out?” There’s apprehension laced inside of his question, like there’s a world where you’d actually say no.
“So you are going to let me help you then?” You smirk, raising a brow, relishing in the playful roll of his eyes you get in return.
“I mean, what else screams romance besides figuratively and literally unpacking family trauma.” He shrugs, squeezing your sides before letting you go to pick up the blanket and trash off the ground.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky. I’ll unpack some of mine too.” You wink with a wiggle of your eyebrows.
John laughs that deep bellied one you don’t get as often as the others, draping the blanket back over his broad shoulder.
“Sounds like a date to me.”
Lacing his fingers with yours leading you to the ladder, he insists on going first as a safety precaution, ignoring your protests on how he shouldn’t be so willing to use his body to break your imaginary fall all the way back down. His hands find your hips again once you reach the last step, helping you the rest of the way, shushing you with a kiss on your flushed cheek.
John’s affection comes easy all the way back to his truck, his touch always finding you like it’s natural. As if it’s always been this way. The familiar flutter of butterflies return deep in your gut when he grabs your hand over his console, pressing his lips to your knuckles before shifting his truck to drive. It’s here, next to him, windows down driving home that you decide to just enjoy the last month of summer. You’ll worry about the end of August when you have to.
Maybe transferring to Briar wouldn’t be the worst idea.
➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.
pt.2 of plowed down
➷ word count: 5919
➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).
omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.
It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.
Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.
You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it.
But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.
It was your own fault, quite honestly.
To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.
That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
And John Logan had fucking grinned.
Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.
Or, at least, you thought you knew.
But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”
“What?”
You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.
He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”
“Okay, no.”
“No?”
“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”
“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”
“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”
Now he looks baffled.
“So we’re done?”
“I don’t do hook-ups.”
“I won’t either.”
“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”
He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”
“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”
“This is different.”
You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.
“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”
As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.
Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.
Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.
“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.
“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”
“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yes.”
You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head.
“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket.
He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own.
You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Number one works.”
You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”
“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”
He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.
“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”
For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss.
In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.
As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing.
You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige.
Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.
Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.
You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie.
You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him.
You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.
Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.
Such as right now.
You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.
You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.
You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside.
Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.
“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”
“Grubby?”
“– I will kill you.”
He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”
“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Why else would I have kept you around?”
He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”
“That and your friends.”
“Wow.”
This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.
It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”
“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”
“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.
“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.
“Why can’t you?”
“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”
“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”
“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”
“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you.
It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”
“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”
He hums, “So you’ll come over?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”
“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No ideas are coming to mind.”
“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”
“Yep.”
“So no kissing.”
“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”
“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”
“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.
“I think you love it.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.
It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.
“You okay?”
“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”
You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”
He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”
When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.
“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”
Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”
“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”
You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.
Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”
“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”
He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”
“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish.
After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.
You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.
And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.
“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek.
You groan in response.
“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm.
“Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”
“You’re tired.”
“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”
“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”
“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”
He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.
When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Whoops.”
He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay.
Instantly, he pushes himself off you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“I have no clothes to change into.”
“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.
You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”
It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”
“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”
And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.
“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”
“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”
He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.
You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”
He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”
Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.
“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.
“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”
“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.
And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.
You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.
“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”
You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”
You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”
“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”
He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”
“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”
“You sure?”
He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”
Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face.
After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw.
He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”
“Me too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
John Logan was your goodluck charm.
The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.
Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.
And, fuck, was it looking promising.
Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.
They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.
That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.
So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.
That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.
They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.
Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing.
No way did you fight this hard only to lose.
You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.
The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.
Right to the spot that was unguarded.
You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.
Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.
Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.
You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.
And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.
More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.
It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning.
All you needed was one more point.
Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.
The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.
You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.
Except it wasn’t that at all.
No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.
It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.
The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.
They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.
You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.
Holy fuck.
You’d scored the winning point.
You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you.
You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.
And you find him instantly.
John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you.
Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.
When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his.
He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.
It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.
As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.
“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : mild makeout-could probably pass as multiple separate kisses, swearing.
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Dating John Logan came with many benefits, great sex, cute puppy dog eyes, free coffee and an eternal study buddy. But the one thing that you couldn't align on- hockey.
You couldn't wrap your head around the sport, he lived and breathed the glorified ice version of boxing. And it had never been a point of contention, you hated how understanding he was about it, so before the game with eastwood- you were determined to understand the game. For Logan.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 5.8k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : So. I don't really have anything to say, except, it had started out as a chill 3k, and then I edited once. Twice. And now we're here, thank goodness I'm on break right now. Don't say I never feed ya'll! Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @uzmacchiato for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
You had spent the first several months of your relationship aggressively indifferent toward hockey. Perpetually confused, even. The first time Logan ever tried explaining icing to you, you had stared at him in complete silence before saying,
“That genuinely sounds like a lie you all collectively agreed to tell freshmen.”
You still kind of stood by that, because hockey was, in your objective opinion, absurd.
It was freezing. Violent. Loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Men willingly hurled themselves across ice wearing knives on their feet while crowds screamed over what looked, to you initially, like a cursed little crumpet. The fact that Logan not only participated in this willingly but genuinely loved it remained one of the great mysteries of your relationship.
Every time someone tried explaining rules to you, it somehow became less understandable and every game clip Logan showed you always ended with men punching each other while commentators spoke about it like it was a weather update.
However, the longer you dated him, the more hockey stopped feeling like just a sport and started feeling like another language Logan spoke. And the thing about loving Logan was that eventually, inevitably, you started to want to understand every version of him.
Not because he demanded it, in fact he was so unbelievably accommodating to your icy indifference with his sport.
He never once complained when you skipped games, wouldn’t even think to pout when you chose studying over away game road trips and barely blinked when you accidentally called a puck a ball once, something that nearly sent Tucker into cardiac arrest.
He just smiled gently every time you asked questions, explained things patiently without a care in the world and kissed your forehead whenever you came to post-game parties even though you didn’t understand half the conversations happening around you.
That alone made you want to understand the things that made his eyes light up.
At first you noticed things, the long list of superstitions before games. Ranging from a ‘sex ban’ 48 hours before a game to a suspiciously secret tradition involving all four of the boys and an egg. It was the little things too, the way Logan got quieter on game days, more focused- how he’d spend the evening before carefully taping his stick.
You noticed how his entire body language changed on the ice during one of the live-streams you had playing in the background, confidence settling into him differently there than anywhere else.
So, slowly, secretly, you started learning.
It began accidentally.
One night Logan had fallen asleep half sprawled across your bed, dead to the world in the way only he seemed capable of being, especially after practice, and you had ended up watching game highlights on your laptop while he snored softly into your shoulder.
At first it was purely observational, you’d watch these men shout and scream across the ice- you’d flinch when the plexiglass walls would lurch and heave as fans slammed their hands against it.
Then it became mildly educational, to the point where you found yourself googling,
“what is forechecking hockey”
followed immediately by,
“difference between forechecking and offensive pressure???”
And since that night you discovered something about yourself, your brain did not know how to engage with things casually.
Once you decided to learn hockey, you learned hockey with the intensity of someone preparing for a final exam. You made notes. With headings.
You watched game analyses while brushing your teeth, recognising penalties while making breakfast- sometimes before the commentators would even announce them.
At one point you spent forty straight minutes trying to understand defensive formations in the shower and accidentally gave yourself a headache.
Which was what led to Hannah eventually finding you sitting cross-legged on the apartment kitchen floor at midnight surrounded by colour-coded sticky notes while muttering about neutral zone pressure.
She had simply stared, worried that if she moved, the scene would turn into a cheap horror chick-flick. You looked up slowly, energy drink in one hand, flashcard in another.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were absolutely going to say something.”
“I was actually going to ask why there’s a diagram of a hockey rink on your flashcards.”
You glance down.
“…this does seem excessive now that you mention it.”
Hannah sat beside you eventually, still visibly fighting laughter.
“You know you could just ask Logan this stuff, right?” She grabbed a stack of flashcards, eyes widening when she saw just how detailed they were, how far gone you were in the world of hockey.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because then he’ll know I care.”
Hannah blinked.
“He’s your boyfriend.” She blinked at the look you gave her, like the fact had close to no bearing on what you'd said, ”Does that mean you're studying hockey in secret?”
“Yes.”
“That counts as caring.”
“No, this is research.”
And after that it became a deeply embarrassing problem.
Because miraculously, Garrett Graham had somehow become your reluctant hockey tutor. Mostly because he made the mistake of answering one text at 2 am. Which led to another. And another. Until suddenly Garrett’s phone was buzzing at ungodly hours with notifications popping up, like:
Hannah’s friend #2
Is a power play momentum shift tactical?
Garret had looked at his girlfriend, who ushered him to answer, glad that you were finding interest in the game. Begrudgingly, entirely for her benefit, he replied:
what the fuck happened to you
Or even worse, when you had asked him:
Hannah’s friend #2
What does it mean when Dean says Logan's defensive positioning is sexy?
Garrett, unfortunately, answered. In detail. Which made you make Hannah promise never to mention defence positions in a room with you or Garrett ever. This also happened to be the time that she caught you watching breakdown videos in the apartment kitchen and nearly cried laughing when she realised you were taking notes.
“Do you have colour coding?” she asked, horrified.
You looked up from your laptop defensively, pausing the analysis that was blaring through your airpods.
“It helps me retain information.”
“It’s hockey.”
“It’s important to him.”
That shut her up.
Mostly because your voice was disgustingly sincere. And because, objectively, it was kind of adorable how dedicated you were.
So naturally, Hannah started helping too. And with Hannah came Allie, who explained penalties with the exhausted patience of someone teaching a medieval peasant how taxes worked.
And slowly, the sport began untangling itself into something understandable. Not fully understandable, that would take eons and perhaps steroid adjacent studying-enhancement drugs. But it was enough
Enough that when Briar’s first major home game of the semester rolled around, you found yourself standing outside the arena wearing one of Logan’s hoodies beneath your coat while your stomach buzzed strangely with anticipation.
Logan, meanwhile, looked deeply suspicious.
“You know,” he said slowly as the two of you walked toward the entrance together, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, “you don’t actually have to stay the whole game.”
You gasped dramatically.
“John Logan,” you placed a hand against your chest, “how dare you.”
“You fell asleep during SportsCenter last week.”
“It was midnight.”
“It was seven thirty.”
You ignored that.
Instead, you grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and tugged him slightly toward you through the cold, “I’m supporting my boyfriend,” you informed him firmly.
Logan’s expression softened immediately at the way you called him your boyfriend, with enough conviction that made him blush and hide a giddy smile.
“You already support me.”
“No, I need to support you everywhere,” you corrected seriously. “That includes here. Athletically”
“That doesn’t sound grammatically correct.”
“It probably isn’t.”
He laughed quietly then, leaning down just enough to kiss your forehead before the team called him over. Logan squeezed your hand once, letting you peck his cheek and whisper a, “good luck” against his skin.
He jogged up to boys who had watched the interaction with teasing smiles, some of them had hollered behind you both.
You stuck your middle finger up at their antics, refocussing your attention to Logan, who had looked back to you momentarily, “You’ll text me if you get bored?”
You rolled your eyes, and shooed him away with a flap of your hand. The other one had been looped through Allie’s elbow- who was dragging you towards the main entrance of the arena.
“I’m not going to get bored.” You called back.
Logan looked unconvinced and shook his head while watching you stumble through the doors with your friends.
Because up until this point your understanding of hockey had mostly consisted of:
Logan looked hot playing it.
Skates seemed like something that should be banned for public health reasons.
Everybody was always weirdly sweaty.
But tonight was going to be different.
Tonight, you knew things.
Like zone entries.
And power plays.
And something called cycling the puck which still sounded vaguely culinary but you were getting there.
The arena itself was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t fully anticipated. Everything felt louder inside.
The lights reflecting off the ice so brightly it almost hurt to look at directly, music blasting through speakers between plays, the constant scrape of skates carving against the rink like someone sharpening knives directly beside your ear.
And the students.
Dear god, the students.
Briar hockey fans behaved less like spectators and more like emotionally unstable addicts. Every hit was treated like a personal attack. Every save triggered screaming intense enough to register the game as a spiritual gathering of some sort. You sat wedged between Hannah and Allie, clutching a hot chocolate you kept forgetting to drink because every thirty seconds something else happened on the ice.
“Okay wait,” you said during warmups, already squinting analytically toward the rink, “why are they all skating in circles.”
Hannah didn’t even look up from her phone. “They’re warming up.”
“But why are they humping the ice?”
Allie snorted beside you.
“They’re hockey players.”
You were about to ask for elaboration, but the jab fell limp on your tongue. Allie looked up at your gaping mouth and followed your glassy eyes, Logan had skated past the glass.
Logically, obviously, you knew your boyfriend played hockey.
You have seen photos. Kept live streams on in the background of your life. You had sat through enough post-practice cuddling sessions to know exactly how broad his shoulders got underneath all that padding.
But seeing him on the ice in person felt different.
Like the version of Logan you knew off the rink - warm hands, sleepy morning voice, constantly stealing your fries - had fused with something faster and more dangerous.
He skated backwards effortlessly while talking to Garrett, helmet tucked beneath his arm, hair damp already from warmups and curling slightly at the edges.
Then his eyes found yours through the glass. He grinned at your face and mimed for you to close your mouth. You shook yourself out of the stupor and furrowed your eyebrows, along with flashing him a polite middle finger- you ignored the way a smile broke through your mock-annoyance when he blew a kiss at you with a cheesy wink.
“Oh,” Hannah said beside you quietly, watching your expression change. “Allie I didn’t realise we were in a danielle steel novel.”
Allie pinched your cheek affectionately and stuck her tongue out at you when you harrumphed and whacked her hand away.
“I’m literally sitting here.”
“No,” Allie corrected, “you wish you were down there, cus you’re in loooove.”
You rolled your eyes and focussed back on the ice, “Unfortunately.”
The game started before they could bully you further.
And, in your defence, when the puck dropped you really tried to behave like someone who was allowed within 500ft of social settings, someone who just casually attended sporting events.
It lasted maybe six minutes.
Because once the first hockey stick slapped the little disc across the ice, everything became movement, and anything static got flung to the boards
The whole rink was fast, sharp, constantly shifting movement that made your brain feel like it was trying to keep up with something half a second ahead of reality. And it didn’t take long for you to stop thinking about looking calm, collected, like someone who was not about to have an emotional breakdown over line changes.
Somewhere around the first big defensive turnover, you heard yourself say, involuntarily,
“Oh that was actually a really clean zone exit.”
Allie turned slowly toward you.
“…what did you just say?”
“I don’t know,” you replied honestly, eyes still on the ice, you slowly turned to face her- slightly horrified but mainly interested at the chemicals firing in your brain, “but I think I meant it.”
Logan got his first assist of the night not long after, a sharp interception, a quick pass, and Dean finishing it off in a blur of movement that sent the arena detonating into noise.
You were on your feet before you realised.
“THAT TRANSITION WAS INSANE,” you yelled immediately, gripping Hannah’s sleeve. “LIKE THAT WAS ACTUALLY PERFECT SUPPORT THROUGH THE NEUTRAL ZONE-”
Hannah blinked at you.
“…you’re speaking hockey now.”
“OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY LEARNT SOMETHING.”
Down on the ice, Logan had already turned.
And he was staring, which, considering the fact that Briar hockey games operated somewhere between collegiate sporting events and active war zones, was probably not ideal.
But he couldn’t bring himself to snap out of it, all he could do was stare up at you like his brain had temporarily stopped functioning in all areas except affection.
Garrett skated past him mid-celebration, “She knows what neutral zone support is now?” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth in a way that looked damn near comical with the huge, padded gloves and slow motion sliding on the ice that came with his question.
Logan didn’t answer, just shook his head and skated over to his friend, grinning like you had personally rearranged his entire understanding of love.
By the second period, Logan realised something was very, very wrong. In the best possible way.
Mostly because every single time he glanced toward the stands, you looked aggressively invested. You were leaned so far forward in your seat that you practically looked ready to physically enter the game yourself. Reacting before goals even happened,
“Oh he’s got space-”
“WAIT THAT’S A TWO-ON-ONE-”
“That’s a bad line change, right? THAT’S A BAD LINE CHANGE-”
Allie slowly slid away from you like she was afraid you might combust, bracing particularly hard when you stood up so fast, you nearly took out the person in front of you.
“OFFSIDE-” you shouted confidently.
There was a pause.
Then Hannah leaned forward slightly, squinting to see the referee’s hand gestures
“…that wasn’t offside.”
“Oh.”
You sat back down immediately.
“Never mind.”
At one point, Dean made a clean hit near the boards and you stood up so fast your drink nearly launched into orbit.
“THAT WAS SUCH A GOOD FUCKING FORECHECK!”
Your voice carried over to the ice, somehow louder than the majority of the audience combined and Logan nearly missed a pass. The slip up got him benched for a cool-down until the third period. He turned toward the stands so quickly that Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him on the bench.
Because what in the ever loving God had happened to his girlfriend?
“Oh my god,” Tucker wheezed, “she learned hockey.”
Logan stared up at you, eyes wide in disbelief. You were still standing, pointing excitedly at the ice while talking animatedly to Hannah.
“NO BECAUSE DID YOU SEE THE ZONE ENTRY?”
“What did you do?” Tucker asked, genuinely curious.
Logan shoved him lightly.
“I don’t know.”
“You created this.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You made her care about our weird little ice game.” He put the apt description in quotation marks, a direct quote of what you said in passing to Tucker.
It wasn’t even that you understood hockey perfectly now, in fact half the time you were still wrong.
You kept yelling “offside” at moments that were very clearly not offside, you confidently called icing before the puck had even crossed the line. But you were evidently trying. For him. And every single time Logan looked at you tonight, you looked so genuinely excited to be there that something warm and helpless kept blooming in his chest.
It got worse in the third period.
Briar was up by one, Eastwood was getting frustrated and the arena was quiet, almost vibrating with anticipation- every hit was louder, every pass sharper and every second stretched tighter as the clock counted down.
You watched with bated breath, hands clasped tightly in front of your face, Logan was everywhere and nowhere, to the point where it was hard to keep track visually and you had started listening for the crisp sound of his skates across the ice.
For every blocked shot of his, you sucked in a victorious breath. He kept the puck moving with such speed, that you were surprised the little shit hadn’t broken in half yet.
Then it happened.
A clean breakout.
A pass that sliced through two defenders like it wasn’t even there.
Dean finished it clean.
GOAL.
The arena exploded.
Students screaming, pounding against the glass, bodies surging to their feet in waves of blue and gold while the team slammed into each other near the boards.
You grabbed Hannah and actually shook her.
“I KNEW THAT WAS COMING-DID YOU SEE THE READ-THAT WAS SO CLEAN-”
Hannah laughed breathlessly,
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore!”
Players poured onto the ice, helmets came off, teammates yelled over each other while music blasted through the speakers loud enough to vibrate through your chest. And through all of it, Logan’s eyes immediately found you.
You looked ecstatic, jumping up and down wildly hand in hand with Hannah and Allie, who were just as excited, maybe even more given the sheer amount of energy you had. You brought both hands over your mouth when you caught him looking up at you, your entire face lit up, “THAT ASSIST WAS INSANE, BABY!” before immediately dropping them again so you could start clapping wildly.
Dean folded over laughing.
Garrett looked seconds away from tears.
Logan, meanwhile, felt something dangerously close to heart failure. Because you sounded so proud, like it would take a natural disaster and a half to make you believe that he was anything less than incredible.
And the second you saw the team filling off the ice you were moving, actually, more like sprinting.
Through the crowd and down the stairs, moving so fast that you could barely hear Hannah yelling something behind you that sounded vaguely like “DON’T BREAK YOUR ANKLE.”
Logan was just stepping off the ice when you reached him, one second he was pulling off his gloves and the next you had jumped into him without hesitation, he barely caught you in time, laughing breathlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist and nearly sent both of you crashing backward into the wall.
“You were actually insane tonight,” you blurted immediately, still half shouting over the noise. “Like your forecheck was disgusting and your gap control was SO tight-”
Logan froze slightly mid-laugh, his eyes turning thoughtful as he pushed your hair out of your face and cupped your cheek,
“…my what?”
You pulled back just enough to look offended.
“Your gap control.”
“Since when do you say gap control?”
“John,” you gasped dramatically, “I have been studying.”
From behind him, Garrett’s voice carried over immediately.
“I wouldn’t really count it as studying, but she has become one of us.”
Logan didn’t even turn around, “Shut up.” He was staring at you, completely and entirely enamoured.
You began your rambling again, barely noticing the painfully soft look in his eyes,
“No wait because explain the power play rotation one more time because I SWEAR that guy cross checked you in the second period and the refs just ignored it-”
Logan kissed you mid sentence, genuinely unable to help himself- you just looked unbearably cute in his arms chattering about hockey like you hadn’t spent the majority of your relationship painfully sitting through his explanations, entirely fuelled by the fact that you love him enough to go through the torture.
His hand cupped your jaw while he kissed, you made a startled sound against his mouth before immediately melting into it anyway, laughing softly when he finally pulled back.
His forehead dropped against yours.
“You learnt hockey for me?” he asked quietly, you blinked and bit your smile.
“…maybe.”
“How many?”
You hesitated which made Logan narrow his eyes.
“How many?”
“Enough that Garrett started sending me links voluntarily.”
Garrett pointed aggressively from nearby.
“I’m like her hockey gandalf- or yoda.”
“You’re built like yoda”
“You’re legit hanging off of your boyfriend right now.”
You stick your tongue out at Garrett and laugh when he makes a disgusted face- tucking Hannah under his shoulder.
You turn back to Logan, who looks genuinely overwhelmed by the information, and smile softly, your hands sliding up into the damp hair at the back of his neck.
“I just wanted to understand it,” you admitted quietly. “Because you love it.”
“You watched hockey for me,” he whispered, still awestruck by how casually you were telling him about it- as if it was something so purely instinctual for you to do. You shrugged at him.
“That’s insane.”
“You’re insane for playing this game,” You corrected.
He laughed and pressed his forehead against yours for a second like he needed to reset his entire nervous system.
“You were cheering for me.”
“Of course I was.”
Something in Logan’s expression completely gave out after that, and you swear you felt his knees shake just before you to kissed him again.
“Oh, we’re so never hearing the end of this,” Garrett muttered in the background, you barely registered Dean and Tucker murmuring affirmatives next to him.
The group had split off momentarily, Allie and Dean had disappeared long before the others- and it was a polite mystery as to where and what they were doing. One that would not be solved anytime soon.
The rest of you had disintegrated momentarily, the boys going to change out of their equipment while you and Hannah hung back, chattering about whatever suited you in the moment. That was until Garret swooped through and plucked her away, letting you know that in a few minutes you’d all be heading to Malones for some drinks, and Logan was waiting at his truck for you.
The parking lot outside the arena was still buzzing when you found him.
Not in the loud, electric way it had been inside-no screaming, no thundering bass of music bleeding through speakers, no collective roar of thousands of people losing their minds over a puck and some ice and a group of boys who looked like they were half animal, half adrenaline.
Now a certain quiet had settled around you, like the world had finally exhaled after holding its breath for ninety minutes.
The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of your coat not being warm enough and the faint sting of cold air against your cheeks, and the way your heartbeat still hadn’t quite realised it was allowed to slow down just yet.
Logan’s truck sat a little off from the main crowd, headlights off, frost beginning to gather along the edges of the windshield like lace. He was leaning against the driver’s side when you approached, his gear messily packed into the Briar brand gym back that he had slung over his shoulder, his hair was half-dry- probably from the shower, after which he had worn a pair of sweatpants and one of your favourite hoodies of his.
His head lifted when you got close enough, instantly turning off his phone as his expression shifted. Like whatever else he was holding in his face-adrenaline, exhaustion, residual competitiveness-just softened and made room for you without even trying.
“Hi,” you said, slightly breathless, like you had run more than you actually had.
His mouth tilted like a child who had just discovered a major secret,
“You were talking about gap control,” he said immediately, his expression was gleeful as you groaned, embarrassed by what your adrenaline made you do a few hours ago.
“I said it twice.”
“Four time actually.,” he corrected easily.
“It was relevant,” you insisted, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you and the cold metal of his truck at your back.
Logan huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, trying not to make it obvious how much he enjoyed this exact version of you. Then his hand found your belt loop without hesitation, pulling you in with a kind of ease that seemed to become second nature for him.
You melted into him instantly, like your body had been waiting for it without telling you.
Cold air on your skin, warm him everywhere else.
It never stopped feeling slightly unfair how easily that balance worked.
“You were really good tonight,” you said again, softer this time, like the words were refusing to stay inside you.
His eyes searched yours, flicking between them as a slow, bashful smile spread onto his face.
“Yeah?”
You nodded, looking up at him properly now.
“Yeah.”
There was a beat where neither of you really moved, like the space between you had tightened into something neither of you wanted to break first. Then he leaned down and you met him halfway.
Logan kissed you with a certain permanence, a sweet, saccharine kind that made you feel like honey would start dripping from your pores. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing absentmindedly there as if he needed to confirm you were still solid, still real.
When you pulled back, you didn’t go far, just hovering over his mouth as your mingled breath turned into pristine white puffs in the cold November air. His forehead hovered against yours, “You actually learned all that stuff,” he murmured, like he still couldn’t quite compute it.
You gave him a look.
“I did.”
“And why would you do that?”
It wasn’t teasing, not fully. There was something softer underneath it now, like he was genuinely curious as to why you went to all the trouble. You shrugged slightly, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, feeling the worn fabric beneath your fingertips.
“Because you care about it,” you said simply. “And I like when your face does that thing when you’re explaining it.”
He blinked.
“…what thing?”
“That thing,” you repeated, smiling. “Like you forget everything else exists for a second.”
Logan went quiet for a beat, then he laughed under his breath and kissed you again, shorter this time, like he couldn’t help interrupting you just because he could.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Me?” you said, pulling back slightly. “I sat through an entire sport I used to think was a conspiracy.”
“You called icing a government lie.”
“It still feels like one.”
That finally got a proper laugh out of him, soft and unguarded, shoulders loosening slightly as he opened the passenger door for you and nudged you inside gently. The warmth of the truck hit you immediately, the soft, familiar heat that smelled faintly like him and whatever energy drink he’d abandoned earlier wrapped around you like an old friend while you nearly tripped over the lingering traces of hockey gear, that somehow never got cleaned out- no matter how many games had passed.
He climbed in after you, shutting the door carefully like he didn’t want to disturb the bubble that had formed the car.
Outside, the world still moved- distant voices, doors slamming, the faint echo of celebration still clinging to the air- but in here, everything felt slightly slowed down, like someone had turned the volume of life down just enough to make breathing easier.
Logan leaned back slightly in his seat, head tilting toward you,
“You were loud tonight, could hear you from the ice” he said eventually.
You made a face at him, “I was engaged.”
“You were aggressively engaged.”
“Thats called a personality baby”
He laughed again, shaking his head slightly, but his hand found yours anyway, fingers threading through yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You kept watching me,” he said.
“I always watch you.”
“No,” he shook his head slightly. “Tonight was different.”
You hesitated, watching how your fingers tucked into the divots of his knuckles, you wiggled your hand in his and looked back up at him, “I was trying to understand it properly,” you admitted. “So I could actually see you, not just… you know, the chaos.”
You could see your words did something to him, the way his jaw softened and eyes dropped briefly to your mouth, like he was desperately trying to not get distracted. His thumb paused mid-circle against your hand like he’d forgotten what he was doing for a second.
“You’re kind of insane,” he said quietly.
You smiled and scrunched your nose at him, “You knew that already.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, leaning in again. “But it’s getting worse.”
You laughed softly into the next kiss, this one lingered longer again, slower, like neither of you were in a hurry to come up for air or reality or anything beyond this small, warm space you kept making for each other. Your fingers curled into the edge of his hoodie collar, pulling him closer in a way that made him breathe out something faintly amused against your mouth. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin like he was memorising the way your face molded into his.
When he pulled back slightly, he didn’t fully let go,
“You were asking questions the whole game,” he murmured.
“Everything can be a learning opportunity johnny,” you bumped his nose with yours
Logan's face crumpled disapprovingly at the nickname, “Johnny? How much did Garrett teach you?.”
“Enough to know what you guys do with the eggs before a game.”
He groaned softly like he had given up entirely, instead he opted to press his forehead against yours, one of his hands slipped between your knees that lay across his lap. He leaned further into you, keeping his other hand between your head and the car door.
Then, quieter, like it slipped out before he could think better of it,
“Keep talking.”
You blinked at him, brushing his hair away from his forehead- you rubbed your thumb against a small cut on his lip.
“About what?”
“Hockey,” he said simply. “Just… talk.”
There was something about the way he said it that made your chest feel a little too full all at once. “You just want me to keep explaining things so you can kiss me mid sentence again,” you accused gently.
His eyes flicked to yours, like he’d been caught halfway in the cookie jar.
“…maybe.”
That earned him a laugh from you as you leaned back against his hand.
“Okay,” you said, pretending to think, tapping your finger against your chin whilst pointedly avoiding his expectant grin. “So basically forechecking is-”
He kissed you immediately, you jumped and let out a half protest and half laugh against his mouth, a small noise from the back of your throat that burst out as a fit of giggles when he pulled away, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I knew it,” you whispered accusatorily.
Logan grinned, his face so close to yours that you could count each of his brown eyelashes, “You talk too much,”
“You literally asked.”
“I asked so I could do that.”
You stared at him, then shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“You’re impossible after wins.”
“You were screaming at the ref from the stands.”
“It. Was. Off. Side,” you gripped his shoulders, pulling him over your body as you enunciated each annoyed word. Obviously, you felt very strongly about this, and Logan could tell when you weren’t even focussed on the love-struck look in his eyes, instead you were looking off into the distance chattering disapprovingly.
He nudged your cheek, prompting you to face him. You cut yourself off, grinning sheepishly but the apology didn’t leave your lips since Logan had begun to popcorn kiss your mouth. Ignoring your protests and swallowing your laughs, “The poor guy looked ready to retire.”
“Logan.” You whined, feeling guilty about traumatising the referee.
He just smiled down at you, that slow, slightly wrecked smile that always made it feel like he was about to do something entirely unfair to your self-control, he leaned in again-slower this time, like he was planning to take his time convincing you to forget whatever you were about to say.
Which, unfortunately for you, was working- very easily from the way your arms looped around his neck and you shuffled down in his hold so you lay beneath him along the passenger seat.
Just as you were about to kiss him, you were interrupted by a muffled sound,
“Logan,” came a voice suddenly from outside the truck.
Then another.
“Bro- are you actually hiding in your truck right now?”
You froze against one another, your eyes popped open and you sighed when logan groaned quietly against your mouth,
“Of course,” he muttered.
Dean’s silhouette appeared near the window, followed immediately by Garrett. And then, far too amused, Hannah.
You pulled back slightly, trying not to laugh as Logan rested his forehead against yours for a second like he was considering his life choices.
“I chose this voluntarily,” He shook his head, eyes lifting to the sky as if God was at fault for his choices that led to this interruption. Namely, the first time he ever held a hockey stick.
“Five minutes,” Dean called, slapping the bonnet of the truck.
Garrett swung his arm around Dean's shoulder, or maybe Tucker’s- you couldn’t make out anything clearly from beneath your suffering boyfriend, “Ten seconds.” Garrett substituted.
Hannah leaned in closer, squinting at the fogged window, she had her hands cupped around your eyes as makeshift binoculars.
“Are they-?”
“Do NOT finish that sentence,” Logan said immediately, jumping off of you and unlocking the door. You slinked down after him, sitting half outside the truck with your legs swinging outside the door. Allie had come up to you and started tugging at your shoes, urging you out of the vehicle, Hannah not far behind her- the three of you were now laughing at Logan, who was threatening the boys who had interrupted him.
“I swear to god dean, I’m marinating all of your condoms in hot sauce,” Logan smacked his friend upside the head, rolling his eyes when Dean responded, claiming he was more than happy to go without them.
Garrett’s eyes widened, “Please no, it took so long for us to get you onto condoms. Poor Tucker was cleaning cum out of the bathtub every day.”
You burst out laughing, incredulously staring at Allie, who winked back but cringed when Tucker stared at her, a blank, haunted look behind his eyes.
“I’ll pay you back Tuck,” Allie offered, patting his shoulder.
And just like that- you were pretty sure that you’d be coming to a lot more of Logan’s games.
I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan
summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.
notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️
warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.
word count: 8k
The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.
It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.
Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.
And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.
A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.
What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"
So. So what? What were you supposed to say?
"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."
Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.
But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.
So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.
At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.
But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.
You and Logan became friends.
Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.
And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.
And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.
And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.
And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.
Every single time.
Which brings you to now.
You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.
You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.
"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.
You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.
The front door opened.
You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.
He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.
"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."
At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.
"Shoot," you said.
Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"
Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.
"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"
"What? No. I'm a man."
"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."
"I know that. It's not for me."
"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."
"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."
"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"
"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."
You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.
Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.
Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.
You knew that shift. You had felt it before.
The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.
It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.
You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.
The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.
You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.
The third time you stopped counting.
Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.
You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—
You glanced at Logan.
He wasn't laughing.
He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.
The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.
You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."
"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.
"You okay?" Garrett asked.
"Fine. Just air."
You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.
"I'll come with you," he said.
The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.
Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."
"Baby—"
"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"
He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.
Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.
"It's not—" he started.
"Logan."
He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.
"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"
"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."
"It's not a big deal—"
"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."
"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."
The word landed like a slap.
Girlfriend.
"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."
"That's not what I—"
"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."
He said nothing, which you took as a yes.
"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."
"You knew what this was when we started—"
"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."
"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"
"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."
"I am being honest—"
"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."
The parking lot went completely silent.
Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.
"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.
"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."
Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.
"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.
"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."
Logan looked at you.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.
"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."
You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.
"Don't follow me," you said.
He didn't.
You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.
Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.
Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.
It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.
Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.
Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.
You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.
Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.
The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.
The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.
I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.
The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.
"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.
You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.
"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.
"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."
"I didn't bring my ID."
Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"
"I forgot." You shrugged.
"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."
You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.
The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.
"You look like you're deciding something," he said.
"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."
He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.
"((Y/N))."
"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."
You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.
By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.
You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.
The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.
You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.
That was the point.
You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.
You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.
Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.
It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.
You were almost believing it.
The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.
Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.
You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.
After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.
Four seconds.
You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.
The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.
You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.
Logan.
He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.
"Hey," you said carefully.
"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.
"That's not really your business."
"You're spending a lot of time with him."
"Logan—"
"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.
"Make it somewhere else."
He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."
You went very still. "The type to?"
"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."
The lobby was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.
"Say that again," you said softly.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"
Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.
"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."
"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."
"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why did you say it?"
He looked at you.
"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."
Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.
"Because I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.
"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.
And then he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "It was."
You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.
But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.
Good, you thought.
And hated that you thought it.
Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.
Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.
Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.
But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.
You were not offended by the word.
You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.
That was what got to you.
Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.
You didn't tell anyone what he said.
That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.
You knew what it meant. That was the problem.
You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.
You were done trying to travel between them.
The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.
You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.
You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.
You were fine. You were getting finer.
You were also absolutely not fine.
Dean found you on a Wednesday.
Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.
He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.
"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.
You looked at your coffee. "Okay."
"He feels terrible."
"Good."
"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."
"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."
You were quiet for a moment.
"A little late," you repeated.
"Okay, very late."
"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."
"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."
"Then what are you here for?"
Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.
"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."
You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.
"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"A while," he said carefully.
"How long is a while, Dean."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Okay," you said.
"(Y/N)—"
"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."
Dean looked at you. "That's it?"
"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."
Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."
You didn't say anything.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."
He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.
Since pretty much the beginning.
338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.
You sat with that for a long time.
It had been raining since noon.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.
You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.
You had not been thinking about Logan.
You were almost at your building when you heard him.
"(Y/N)."
You stopped walking.
He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.
He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.
"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"It's raining."
"I know."
"You're soaked."
"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."
You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.
"You have two minutes," you said.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.
"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."
The rain was very loud suddenly.
"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."
You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.
"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.
"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
"Yes."
"A year."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."
You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.
"The Hannah thing," you said.
"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."
The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."
The street was very quiet under the rain.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.
Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.
The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.
"You're an idiot," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.
"I know," he said.
"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."
"I know."
"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."
"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."
The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.
"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."
"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."
You looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly.
"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."
The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.
Then you closed the distance.
You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.
When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."
"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."
"I know. Whatever it takes."
"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."
"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."
You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! econ! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : tipsy! reader- but not during sexy time, established sober like 500 times, m!cum in pants, f!fingering, teasing!, m!praise, wet making out (is that a warning?), grinding.
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : It's the end of finals week! that means that John Logan's long time girlfriend can finally let loose at the first party post-exams, but letting loose, means a whole lot more for this man than he thought. OR you teasing Logan by calling him pretty alot.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.6k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : thank you so much for the love on my first fic of the blog!! 1.2k likes [as of now] is wild. I know this wasn't on the WIPs, but a Drabble turned into this and I thought it would be cruel to deprive the John Logan smut girlies for so long. gif credit: @firstprinced; divider credit : @digilatte
Finals week had reduced you to a concerning version of yourself. An intense, borderline doped up version of you that scared your roommates into hiding.
At some point over the last ten days, you had consecutively survived almost exclusively on iced coffee and protein bars, cried in the library stairwell over a statistics quiz worth five percent of your grade, accidentally highlighted an entire textbook chapter because you stopped processing colour properly around three in the morning, and fallen asleep sitting upright against Logan’s shoulder while trying to explain some bullshit economic theory to him.
Which meant two things.
One:
You were exhausted and so ready to finally dedicate more than ten minutes to washing your hair.
And two:
The entire hockey team had collectively decided about three days into you bear grylls level study marathon, that you would have to be, as they liked to call it, “reintroduced into society” the second said exams ended.
Which was how you ended up tipsy for the first time in months, tucked against Logan’s side in the middle of some overcrowded off-campus party while music rattled the walls hard enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your shoes.
“You alive over there?” Logan asked, leaning closer so you could hear him properly.
You looked up from where your cheek was half pressed against his shoulder.
“Barely.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“You know,” you informed him seriously, “I think I deserve financial compensation for finals week.”
Logan snorted softly.
“I’ll let the university know.”
“You should.”
His hand stayed warm at your waist while people moved around you in loud, blurry motion. The house smelled faintly like cheap alcohol and somebody’s burnt pizza rolls, humid from too many people crammed into too small a space, but tucked into the corner of the couch beside Logan, everything felt strangely soft around the edges instead of overwhelming.
Mostly because he kept checking on you every five seconds. In a quintessential John Logan way, that made you feel unreasonably fuzzy inside.
Especially when he remembered how much water you’d had, quietly traded your vodka mixer for a weaker one halfway through the night without making a thing of it, and kept rubbing his thumb against your hip absentmindedly every time he noticed your eyes drifting shut.
“You tired?” he asked eventually.
“A little.”
“You wanna head back?”
You considered it seriously for approximately half a second before nodding.
“Can we order cheesy fries on the way home?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How coherent you are right now.”
You gasped softly. “I’m incredibly coherent.”
“You tried to unlock the bathroom with your student ID .”
“That was one time.”
“It was four times.”
You laughed hard enough your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder, and Logan’s mouth twitched immediately at the sound.
By the time Logan was steering you carefully out of the crowded basement party with one warm hand settled at your lower back, your brain felt pleasantly untangled for the first time in weeks, limbs loose and warm beneath your coat while cold night air hit your cheeks hard enough to make you laugh.
The walk back to the hockey house wasn’t far, cold night air cutting through the leftover warmth of the party enough to sober you steadily with every block. Logan kept his arm around your shoulders the entire time anyway, occasionally glancing down at you like he was recalculating your risk assessment every few minutes.
“You good?” he asked immediately, glancing down at you as you stumbled slightly against him on the sidewalk.
You grinned up at him.
“Perfect.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It’s because I’m whimsical now.”
“You’re tipsy.”
“I’m whimsical and tipsy.”
“Mm.”
“And for the record,” you continued, poking lightly at his chest through his sweatshirt, “you also drank.”
“I had like two beers over four hours.”
“So you admit it.”
“I admit nothing.”
Logan tightened his arm around you automatically when you leaned more of your weight into him. The walk back blurred pleasantly around the edges, campus quieter now except for distant music and occasional bursts of laughter drifting from frat houses further down the street.
By the time the hockey house came into view, your head felt clearer than it had left the party, comfortably warm instead of blurry, thoughts slower around the edges but still fully there.
Your heels clicked unevenly against the pavement.
Logan slowed instinctively to match you, that stupid fond warmth settled in your chest again.
You stared at him for a second too long.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re very large.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“…Thank you?”
“No like,” you continued seriously, squeezing his bicep, “you’re just kind of everywhere.”
He tapped your nose, “That’s usually how being six foot two works babe.”
“Crazy.”
The house itself was quieter than expected when you stepped inside, only faint light spilling from the kitchen and distant noise from somewhere upstairs, but most of the team had either passed out already or vanished with hookups hours ago. The bitterness of the alcohol had already started to fade, leaving a sweet taste in its wake. You weren’t dizzy anymore, just floaty in that magical post-party way that made everything feel so comforting.
“Miracle,” Logan muttered while gripping your wrist. Watching you carefully as you undid the straps of your heels while leaning on his shoulder for stability, “Nobody’s screaming.”
“Garrett’s probably dead.”
“One can hope.”
You laughed softly. Nudging your shoes, if they could be called that, into a semi-convenient space next to the door, but shrugged once they got stuck in the tangle of a thousand sports trainers.
You stayed over enough that nobody even questioned it anymore.
There were hair ties in Logan’s bathroom drawer. A skincare bottle next to his sink. Dean had once walked into the kitchen at eight in the morning, seen you wearing Logan’s shirt while making coffee, and simply said,
“Oh thank god, you live here now. Maybe you’ll stop him eating dry cereal for dinner.”
You’d stayed over enough times by now that his room already half-felt like yours anyway.
Logan guided you up the stairs and into his room, the quiet settled differently when the door clicked closed, the comforting kind of silence that greets you after a weeks long holiday away from home.
He tossed his keys onto the desk before turning toward you immediately.
“You need water.”
“You sound like my doctor.”
“You’ll thank me tomorrow morning.”
You smiled slightly while he crossed the room, “You’re really pretty tonight,” you murmur.
Logan laughs softly under his breath while digging through his dresser for one of his shirts to replace the dress you had on currently.
“Tonight specifically?”
“Mhm.”
“Good to know.”
“No, like-” your voice catches slightly around another laugh as you crawl onto the mattress behind him and grab one of his pillows, you bury into the clean scented cotton and angle your face towards him, moreso speaking to his back. “I mean it.”
He turns then, still holding the shirt loosely in one hand.
And something about the way you’re looking at him makes his expression shift. He had tugged his sweatshirt off sometime upstairs, leaving him in a dark grey t-shirt that stretched distractingly across his shoulders, curls messy from the cold outside air, cheeks still faintly flushed from alcohol and laughter.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly.
“What?” he asked immediately.
“You’re just.. so pretty.” You breathe out, a tangled mix of a gasp and sigh, pushing yourself up slowly, hair messy and strewn across your face.
The corner of his mouth lifted automatically.
“Yeah?”
You crawled to the edge of the bed closest to him. “Like… genuinely.”
You could practically see the exact moment he realised you weren’t teasing him.
“You’re pretty all the time,” you continued quietly, reaching out toward him- fingertips outstretched and ghosting over the belt loop of his jeans. “I just don’t think I say it enough.”
He steps between your knees where you’re sitting, shirt still hanging forgotten from one hand while your palms slide slowly up his thighs.
“Pretty hands,” you whisper, mainly to yourself, tracing the calluses on his palm and the soft cuticles of his nails. You travel higher to his forearms, beckoning him to bend closer towards you- his knee coming up onto the comforter. Logan watches, his eyes still playful and face flushed.
“Pretty arms,” fingertips tracing over the veins in his forearms before guiding his large palms to lay flat on your hips, he exhales heavily, a crack in his breath punctuating the shift in his gaze from loving to lustfully curious.
“Baby,” he said softly, “How tipsy are you right now?”
You looked up at him properly, “Enough to say this,” then smiled slightly, “But not enough to not mean it.”
You watched his throat move when he swallowed, eyes flicking down to your parted lips.
“Promise?” he asked quietly.
You nodded immediately.
“Promise.”
The tension in his shoulders eased after that.
And then you touched his face again.
“Pretty eyes,” you murmured softly, fingertips barely grazing the edge of his lashes in a way that makes his breath stall for half a second before he steadies it again.
“Pretty cheeks.”
Your hand cups his face now properly, softer than your words sound, thumb resting near his jaw like you’re holding him still just to admire. Your fingers graze his stubble and you itch to rub your face against his, like a cat, arching for attention.
He exhales again, slower this time, eyes fixed on yours- watching as your mind filters through every possibility, a dark, dirty loop.
You can feel the shift before anything else changes - the room, the air, the space between you narrowing without either of you daring to move away, too transfixed on your next move.
“And pretty hair.” You almost moan out, the memories of how you’d bury your hands in his hair and tug and scratch appreciatively in response to his actions.
Your fingers slid into his curls, nails dragging lightly against his scalp.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered quietly
You bit your lip, teasing it between your teeth to hide the way your mouth watered at the blush that stained his cheeks.
“Are you done?” he asks, somehow leaning even closer to you whilst not brushing his lips against yours. You almost snicker at the wrecked expression he has, but instead you let out a shaky breath when he uses his thumb to pry your bottom lip out from the grips of your teeth.
“No,” you say immediately, you gulp thickly and continue your appreciation, “m'taking my time baby.”
A shiver travels down your spine when his fingers move, dangerously slow to the hem of your dress that is already so far up your thighs that you aren’t sure there's a point in still having it on. But you lose most of your coherent thought train when his fingertips breach below the tight sequined fabric.
You quickly stand, twist Logan into your space and push him down on the bed. He wipes a hand down his face and lets out a growl from the bottom of his throat, eyes raking up your debauched appearance,
“Is this how you feel when I manhandle you?”
“Little bit, but you normally do that after I’ve come twice, so I’m not complaining."
You take one of his wrists and pull him up so you can climb into his lap, knees settling carefully on either side of his thighs while Logan looks up at you like he couldn’t decide whether he’s overwhelmed or completely gone already.
Probably both.
“You know what your problem is?” you asked softly, wrapping his arms around you as you shuffle further up against him.
“What?”
“You don’t realise how hot you are.”
That finally got a real laugh out of him, breathless around the edges.
“Baby, I play hockey. Unfortunately that’s like ninety percent of my personality.”
“No,” you insisted, leaning closer. “I mean it.”
Your fingers drifted down his throat slowly, tracing the shape of his Adam's apple, before you brush your mouth against his jaw, he groaned at your featherlight touch, eyes screwed shut and control fraying at the edges.
“You’re stupidly pretty.”
Logan’s hands flexed harder against your waist, fingers digging into the swell of your hips.
“You cannot say shit like that and then not kiss me,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to behave.” That made you scoff out a chuckle against the corner of his lips.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice serious as he holds your face in his hands, prying you away from his neck, “You’re not tipsy right now, right?”
You pull away and look at him carefully for a second, eyes softening as he studies your face.
“Positive,” The hand that you had resting on his neck comes up to spread against his jaw, guiding his gaze to focus on yours, “I'm completely sober right now.”
Logan’s silent for what seems like hours, watching, analysing you. How your once slightly tangy breath is now coming out in fresh puffs against his nose and the tipsy giddiness in your eyes is replaced with something calmer.
“Okay.” He finally whispers, threading his fingers into your hair and pressing your forehead against his.
“I love you,” You whisper, giggling when he scoffs and kisses your cheek, “Where was I?”
He lets out a small breath when his hands finally slide up your back properly, warm palms flattening on your ass while he tips his head back to let you kiss along his throat.
You grip the bottom of his shirt, “Can I take this off?”
Logan nods, moving back so he can remove it in one fluid tug. You lean into his hands when they return to your back, pushing your weight into him so you can take in his bare skin, the healed over hockey scars and bruises hidden in the shadows of the room, the dips and slants of his muscles contracting which each deep breath- clearly visible in the glow of his lamp.
“Really pretty shoulders,” You grip the thick muscle in question, nails digging in slightly as you grind down experimentally, “And chest, god, I really hit the jackpot here.”
You ignore the flustered heat radiating off of him and begin to kiss down his neck, wet open mouth kisses that leave glistening stamps on his tanned skin. They make a path of their own, winding around his throat and down to his clavicle, where you begin to lose composure, sucking and biting the skin, whimpers bleeding out in between each new lovebite; they continue to twist onto his chest, spiralling each pec until you can’t comfortably continue. That’s when you push him down and adjust his hands on your body, pulling up your dress to your waist so he can grip you harder.
“Are you still behaving?” you whispered, punctuating the question with a bite to his abs.
“Barely.”
You smile against his stomach, your lips meeting the line of brown hair that starts as a splattering at his abdomen.
Logan swallowed hard from above you, one arm resting on his forehead- his hand balled into a loose fist, the other rested on your head, lightly scratching your scalp, fingers buried into your hair.
His thighs flex beneath you and you sit up once again, “And your thighs baby, you have such pretty thighs”. You grind against the prominent bulge in his jeans, “So strong too.” You press your palms behind into his legs, arching your back into his chest as he sat up once more.
“Baby-” He gasped, “You can’t just- shit” You ripped off your dress, or whatever rolled up and wrinkled version you had on, “You can’t just say shit like that.”
“But it's true Logan.” You let him pull down the cups of your bra, mouthing messily at your breasts as he slowly guides your hips against him.
At this point, Logan’s lips were swollen and spit-slick from biting them and wetting them with his tongue. They were warm against your nipples, teeth a dull ache against the hardening buds as he rolled them, alternating between gentle kisses and tugs with his fingers to sharp sucks and pinches.
You moan out loudly, pulling at his hair as your hips begin to quicken. Your hands shake from the pleasure coursing through your entire body, but your grip on his jaw is steady as you kiss him. Mouth engulfing him in an open mouth kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth slowly, he matches your desire, his own tongue tangling with yours, hot puffs of air bursting from each millisecond you take to breathe.
Logan made this sound low in his throat that went straight through you, and suddenly you wanted more of it.
Your fingers tightened in his curls.
His grip on your waist sharpened.
The room felt warmer now, heavier somehow, every breath pulling slower than before while his mouth moved against yours with growing urgency.
“Baby,” he breathed quietly when you shifted in his lap without thinking.
“Your’e so pretty baby,” you whimpered softly before you could stop yourself, a mix of your saliva dripping from your lips.
Logan exhaled sharply against your mouth.
“fuck,” he panted, “What has gotten into you”
You shrug, thighs burning as he picks up the pace of the messy grinds against you, hands digging into your waist, “Just wanna appreciate my beautiful boyfriend, hah, my hot,” You kiss his neck and roughly thrust your hips, “sexy,” You switch sides, “amazing boyfriend.”
His head tips back as he laughs.
“Jesus Christ.”
His mouth crashed back into yours harder this time, one hand diving into your underwear to press your clit whilst the other ran his nails up your spine, fingertips pressing into soft skin hard enough to make your breath catch.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered roughly against your mouth, “You’re so fucki-”
You kissed him again before he could finish the sentence, desperate to feel his lips against yours, to feel his tongue slip into your mouth and invade your taste buds.
Your fingers gripped his neck, digging into the sensitive skin as you whimpered, “I forgot,” You lifted up suddenly, looking down to where your bodies were feverishly rubbing, his fingers still teasing your folds and rolling your clit beneath his thumb, “Your cock,” the lewd words were breathed against his ear, as your briefly slowed to press your fingers against the spot where his dick seemed to be straining against the zipper of his jeans, you were met with a damp patch, fingertips tracing the exact area, feeling it out since the darkness of the room wasn’t helpful in identifying just how badly he wanted you, “Your cock is so pretty baby.”
Logan shuddered against you and you gasp coyly, “yeah? I knew you had a praise kink. You are really liking this.”
You begin rolling your hips once more, this time directly on the mound that is throbbing against your cunt, warmth radiating through your ruined panties. Logan kisses you and smiles against your mouth, “Good thing I know just what you like,”
His fingers shifted, two digits now circling your hole, in response you arch your chest into him, “So pretty baby.” He snickers against your chest, slowly entering you, mouth parting in parallel with yours whilst a broken moan escapes your throat as he curls his fingers messily.
The irony isn’t lost on you, his cheeky smile makes you slow your hips, rocking deeply instead of short and snappy movements- languidly drawing out low moans from your boyfriend, who is heavily groaning into your parted mouth.
Both of you breathing into one another, wetness slipping down from your tongues into a messy, filthy mix against your chins.
His eyes roll back, as do yours when you find the perfect angle at which his fingers can firmly plunge against the spongy place inside of you whilst you catch the tip of his bulge with each slow rock.
You know he’s about to cum when short, barely audible whimpers leave his lips, his dark eyebrows pulled together in concentration as his mouth puckers to a shaky pout,
“You gonna cum baby?” You tease the coils of hair at the nape of his neck and watch him bite his lip hard, glancing down to where his hand disappears beneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers mutilating the soft lace in an obscene way.
Logan shook his head sharply, “Need- fuck- need you to cum first.” His other hand that had been kneading your ass, now went to your waist, guiding your hips in tandem with his fingers that now grinded into you, the heel of his palm pressing into your pubic hair with enough pressure to make your body jerk.
“Oh,” you bit into his shoulder, teeth digging into the muscle, surely going to leave a mark, “I will, Logan, i’m cumming, fuck oh my god.”
The way you moan his name made his hips buck and chest seize up, stuttering whilst you felt the denim beneath you warm considerably. You cup his face, thumb just below his bottom lip as you kiss him slowly, perversely, all slow strokes of your tongue and drool smacking against both of your teeth.
When Logan is able to control his body once again, he kisses you back, his fingers that never stopped, only slowed- picked up the pace. Making you jump, and gasp, “Logan,” you babble out obscenities:
“Yes, fuck right there, please dont stop.”
“So good, baby- need it so bad.”
His chest heaves when you do break around his digits, spasming wildly as wetness coats his knuckles and dribbles down into his palm, he croons at your blissed out expression, face glowing with sweat. He pushes your hips back slightly to pull out his hand, an empty feeling replacing them but soon it disappears when you watch him through hooded eyes, lips parting to welcome his glistening fingers into his mouth.
Logan groans, smacking his lips, eyes never leaving yours, “So fucking glad your exams are over babe.”
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! di Laurentis!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : points of tension? but not angst, secret relationship
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being Dean di daurentis' little sister came with many...features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn't help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.
Meaning you'd be willing to do just about anything to protect the one good thing you had kept to yourself since you lied to your parents about getting drunk for the first time. That included, a bunch of brain rotting dates with the most eligible bachelors at Briar, which, fair warning- will lead to your boyfriend not being the happiest man on earth.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 7k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : What can I say for this one. I just hope you guys think I still have a life. I do, it's just a bit lost at the moment. I swear. I'm also on break right now- so I have alot of free time haha. catch me not uploading anything when teaching starts again. Anyway, just goes to show that when I get requests I don't half ass them haha. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @onyxdaze for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.
Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.
“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”
You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.
“Every time you say that, I suffer.”
“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”
Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.
From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.
Except Garrett.
Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.
Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.
“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.
Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.
Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”
Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”
“You literally scoffed.”
“I breathed.”
“That was a judgmental breath.”
“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.
Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”
Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”
Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”
“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.
The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.
Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.
Now here you were.
Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos.
Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.
You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.
“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”
“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.
The room went quiet.
You looked at him.
Dean looked at him.
Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.
“What?” Dean said eventually.
Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.
“What?” he repeated.
“You think cooking is manipulative?”
Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither does pre-law.”
Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”
“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied.
Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.
“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”
Tucker physically folded over laughing.
Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“People love me.”
“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”
Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.
You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.
Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.
Hockey boy 💗
stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind
Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.
You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room.
You:
you are being unbelievably dramatic rn
Hockey boy 💗
he said the guy cooks
You:
so…do you?
Hockey boy 💗
yeah but i do it sexier
You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.
Hannah looked over instantly.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“You just giggled at your phone.”
“I did not.”
“You literally did.”
Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”
You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.
“No,” he said immediately.
The entire room turned toward him.
A beat passed.
Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.
“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”
Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.
Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.
“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”
He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.
You hated how attractive the man was.
Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.
One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.
Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.
Waiting.
You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,
“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”
Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours.
“All humans should moisturize.”
“Not that much.”
“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“It just is.”
“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.
Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”
“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”
“I’m not beefing with him.”
“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”
Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.
Hockey boy 💗
if he touches you im transferring schools
You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.
God.
He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,
“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup.
Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.
That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink.
You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.
You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf.
You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.
“Baby.”
There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts
Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes
“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”
He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.
“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.
You met his eyes through the mirror.
Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.
“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.
“They barely count.”
You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”
“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”
“That’s still a date.”
“It was psychological warfare.”
You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.
And you were always paying attention to him.
His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened
“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”
“He looks slippery.”
“That is not a real critique.”
“It could be.”
You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.
“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.
Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.
You tried very hard not to melt visibly.
“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”
“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin
“6 months?”
Logan realised his mistake immediately.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?”
“That thing where you look smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re literally smirking.”
You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well.
You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.
Interesting timeline.
Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.
“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.
You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel
“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”
His hands tightened slightly against your waist.
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re literally pouting.”
“I don’t pout.”
You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”
Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.
“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.
“A little bit.”
“That’s concerning.”
“You’re being insane.”
“I’m being reasonable.”
“You called him slippery.”
“He is slippery.”
You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.
“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.
You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I mean it.”
Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.
Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.
Your expression softened.
“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.
The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”
Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.
His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.
“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.
“Hm?”
“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”
Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.
“You asshole.”
“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”
You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.
“HEY!”
You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.
“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”
Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.
Then Dean yelled again,
“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”
The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips.
Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”
“You live here.”
“Don’t remind me.”
You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,
“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.
“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You followed me upstairs.”
“I was stretching my legs.”
“Through my tonsils?”
Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead
If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually.
But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.
Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.
Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.
Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.
You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.
“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”
You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”
“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”
“He weaponizes confidence.”
Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.
Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.
You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions.
Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.
“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.
“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.
“You and Logan seem close.”
Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.
“Logan?”
“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”
You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.
“He’s just weird.”
Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.
“I figured.”
The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.
Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly.
The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.
But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical.
But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.
Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought.
Hockey boy 💗:
Are you home yet?
You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps
9:14 PM.
9:26 PM.
9:41 PM.
9:57 PM.
Four separate messages.
Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.
Hockey boy 💗
If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep.
Hockey boy 💗
Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure.
Hockey boy 💗
I miss you.
Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.
“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.
Your head snapped up.
“What?”
He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”
Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,
“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table. Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.
The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.
You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.
Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.
It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.
Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right.
“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.
Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested.
“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal.
Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight.
“And he says she’s laughing a lot.”
A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.
He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,
“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.
Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.
“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.
Allie glances between them. “Like what?”
Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”
Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.
“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.
Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,
“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm.
Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised.
Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”
Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.
“That’s… nice.”
Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.
“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”
“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.
“That is not helpful.”
Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.
Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority.
The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.
“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”
Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.
He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.
But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”
Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”
Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”
Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration.
Logan finally cuts in.
“Can you stop reading that out loud.”
Dean looks up, “Why?”
A pause.
“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”
Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.
He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.
The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,
“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”
Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.
The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.
Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.
When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.
You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.
Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.
A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.
Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.
“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”
You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”
The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.
He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.
“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.
You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”
Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.
“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.
“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud.
Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”
He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.
“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.
You pause mid-unzip of your dress.
“I said I’d be out for a bit.”
“That is not a time.”
You finally look at him properly.
There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.
“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.
Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.
You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are absolutely pouting.”
“I’m not-”
He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.
“There,” you say softly. “That one.”
His brows knit together.
“This is not-”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He pauses.
You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.
“I don’t like it,” he says finally.
You hum.
“What part?”
His eyes flick to yours properly now.
“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”
You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.
“Logan,” you say, gently.
He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin.
“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction.
His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.
“That’s not fair.”
You smile.
“Why?”
“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.
You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.
“You were not normal about it,” you say.
“I was.”
“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”
“I was not brooding.”
“You were brooding.”
He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.
“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”
Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.
“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.
You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”
A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.
Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”
You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble.
“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”
“I was not-”
He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.
“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.
You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them.
“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”
Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”
“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”
He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last.
Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed.
Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear.
Strange.
The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers.
Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.
“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch.
“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can.
You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,
Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”
“You-”
“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.
“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately.
It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes.
Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”
Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”
You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”
Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,
You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”
A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x sports med! fem!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : suggestive content [making out, mild mild PDA], not secret but private relationship, hockey frat boys, probably alot of inaccuracies
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, John Logan treats it like a second home. But the team can't confirm nor deny your relationship... well until now
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.8k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Might not be my best work! but I am just getting used to the sports fandom in general. Also still deciding whether im leaning more towards book or show Logan, so I hope you enjoy my attempt at feeling out his character. diver credit : @cafekitsune
The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.
And is technically supposed to close at six.
Technically.
In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.
Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.
The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.
You don’t even look up immediately.
“You’re late,” you say automatically.
“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.
Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”
“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him.
That makes you glance up and grimace.
“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.
Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.
“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines
“You guys make it incredibly easy.”
Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.
“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”
“That’s not true,” you say automatically.
It kind of is, though.
You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.
“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves.
“That was one time,” Dean argues.
“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”
The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.
And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.
His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.
Your mouth twitches on instinct.
“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”
“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”
“You’re twenty.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.
Unfortunately, the team notices too.
“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”
“Actually disgusting,” another adds.
You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.
“Alright, what happened?”
“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.
“You got hit with a foam roller.”
“It was aggressive.”
From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.
The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.
He’s already looking at you.
He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.
And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“You injured too?”
He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.
“Are you busy?” he asks.
You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”
His mouth twitches.
Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”
“We’re literally talking,” you say.
Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.
“That’s how it starts.”
Logan ignores them entirely.
“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.
You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.
“Your team is exhausting.”
“That’s fair.”
“You included.”
“Less than the others.”
“Debatable.”
That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.
You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”
“My knee-”
“My wrist-”
“Emotionally, mostly-”
“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.
And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.
Closest to you.
Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.
You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.
“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”
“It’s emotionally devastating.”
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”
“Get out.”
Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.
Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms.
You glance back over your shoulder briefly.
He doesn’t even look guilty.
If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.
“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.
“Thought I was hot.”
You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”
That earns the smallest laugh out of him.
Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.
“Why are you looking at him like that?”
You don’t even blink.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to put him down.”
“Because he’s touching my keychain.”
“That’s weirdly domestic.”
“It’s literally a keychain.”
“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”
Logan finally speaks again from beside you.
“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”
Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”
Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”
Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.
You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.
The room erupts instantly.
“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”
Shockingly, they obey.
You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.
The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.
Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,
“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.
Dean sharply bursts out laughing.
“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”
“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.
“You looked ready to fight me.”
“You’re annoying me.”
“That’s even worse!”
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.
Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind,
“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.
“Mostly.”
That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,
“Mostly?”
He finally shifts slightly on the stool.
“My shoulder’s stiff.”
You stare at him.
“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”
A shrug.
“You were busy.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
His mouth twitches again.
“You like me anyway.”
The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.
One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.
“There it is.”
“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.
You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.
You stop.
Then sigh.
“Great.”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”
A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”
Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”
“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.
He looks entirely unbothered.
“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”
Logan nods once.
“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”
He pauses.
“You want me to leave?”
“You smell like a locker room.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”
Logan doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s because she looooves me.”
“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.
You point toward the hallway.
“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”
One teammate gasps dramatically.
“She’s asking him to come back.”
“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, but not like that.”
Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.
He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.
You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.
This time Logan laughs properly.
The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.
You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.
By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.
You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.
“You showered fast,” you say lightly.
Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.
“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”
There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.
You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.
The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”
“I know.”
“You’re laying it on thick today.”
He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him
“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”
Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.
“…Baby.”
“What?” you ask.
“You’re just handing it to me?”
“You have hands.”
“But you do it better.”
The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.
You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.
You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m injured.”
“You are literally sitting upright.”
“My shoulder hurts.”
“You survived practice.”
“Barely.”
He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.
You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.
“I cannot believe this works on me.”
“It does though.”
You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.
It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.
“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”
“Much.”
“you're so manipulative.”
“You love it.”
Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.
Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.
“There she is.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees,
“Take your shirt off.”
Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,
“Wow.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”
You point the tape threateningly.
“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”
That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.
The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity.
But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.
“Are you checking me out right now?”
You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”
“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”
“I’m not acting shy.”
“You stopped moving.”
“I was thinking medically.”
That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.
“Sure you were.”
You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables.
You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.
“That’s not very professional of you.”
Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”
You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.
“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”
“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”
“John.”
You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.
“Abuse of power.”
“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”
That finally shuts him up.
The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.
“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”
“Hot.”
You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”
You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.
“There,” you murmur, “Done.”
The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.
Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.
You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.
You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady
“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.
“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”
“You invited me.”
Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.
The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.
His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.
You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.
His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.
One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.
The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.
His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.
The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.
“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.
“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”
“And it worked.”
He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.
The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.
“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”
You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."
He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.
You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.
“YO LOGAN-”
You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.
You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.
One teammate points aggressively.
“I KNEW IT.”
Another gasps dramatically.
“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”
You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.
He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.
“Get out, you perverts.”
The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.
If anything, they move further inside.
“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.
“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”
“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.
Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.
You look back at him with teary eyes.
“You threw tape at them.”
“They interrupted me.”
“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”
“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”
"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.
That makes you laugh all over again.
Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.
“Door,” he says flatly.
The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.
Rose Landry highest self esteem of all time. she has mediocre sex a couple times with a guy who seems not all that into it and goes "hm. Well, I'M definitely not the problem. the only possible answer is that he is Gay."
david hollander is the true winner of the idgaf war. he doesn’t know what youtube is. he doesn’t care about shane’s sponsorships. he understands why shane doesn’t wanna go to wimbledon and is just happy to go with his wife. he sees his son making out with his supposed arch enemy and turns 180 degrees, gets in his car, and doesn’t tell a soul. he pulls out the vodka when his newly out gay son is having a freak out at the dinner table. if shane had even 1% of his idgaf powers he would be unstoppable. unfortunately that boy inherited his mom’s gaf-ability, which is constantly set to 150%.
ilya: i didn’t set up an ad campaign with the two of us together, call you pretty, tease you in the shower, and then almost get caught by your mom in the elevator for you to get our anniversary wrong. since summer before, shane
