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I’ve been trying to make the term athlentertainment catch on. But like the word fetch, it’s never gonna happen.
No—my crush on hockey’s beautiful bad boy began on a typical Tuesday night fifteen years ago when he shared a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie with me and told my brother to stop being a jerk.
“Well, well, well,” Logan says. “If it isn’t little Peter Parker, all grown up.”
She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.
Parker is nothing short of stunning, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the shift from my best friend’s adorably dorky little sister to … this.
She laughs then, which was my goal, and I catch a glimpse of the girl I remember. If Parker wasn’t laughing, she was smiling. Always. She was a compact ball of sunshine who drove away the constant storm cloud I lived under. For a while.
She smells like cinnamon and cookies and something familiar that hits me hard. The word that comes to mind is home. She smells like home.
Though I fear it’s already too late. The crush has risen. More like … it never died and just sat quietly like a troll under the bridge, biding its time.
It was like I studied a primer on how to scare a guy off. I could star in the sequel to How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days—How to Lose a Guy in Ten Seconds.
Logan is special because he’s always been special. Back then and now again. Still. Whatever.
At the time, in all my eighteen-year-old maturity, it seemed like the best option. The only option. Now, looking back, I would have chosen differently.
Logan rubs his hands together, his eyes sparkling. “Oooh, we’re bringing out the big guns now. Not just any sticky notes but the pink sticky notes.”
His irises are the green of very, very bad decisions. My stomach tightens, caught somewhere between anxiety and excited anticipation.
And not just any someone—with Logan. My childhood crush. My teenage dream. My now … I don’t know.
Famous hockey studs don’t fall for the small-town woman who’s never been kissed. No way. Though honestly … the hockey player plus the never-been-kissed girl-next-door would be a killer Hallmark movie. Not with actual killing. Obviously. But definitely some kissing.
he says. “Can’t have my Parker unhappy.” My Parker? He may not have told me I look beautiful, but this is somehow ten million times better.
Be still, my swooning heart. I think I need to raise the bar for what inspires swooning. Not being a pawn should be the baseline of common decency.
“You can’t apologize for other people, Parker.”
His protectiveness combined with his respect for me is like the ultimate gold standard for men. It is in this moment that I realize I might be a little bit in love with my fake boyfriend.
I ignore the scared part of me. I choose bravery instead. I choose to be reckless. I choose hope.
Words gather into a flash mob in my brain. Too many things I want to say. Too many things I probably shouldn’t say.
It’s nice to feel needed by someone. Especially by someone I know would be there for me as well.
“I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing,” I confess. Felix nods, then shoots me a quick grin. “Well, don’t let that stop you from doing something.” I don’t plan to.
let’s face it—all teenage boys exist on a sliding scale of stupidity.)
I’m starting to wonder if Logan being labeled as a bad team player is really more about him struggling to form connections, struggling to trust people.
Proving people wrong is one of my favorite things to do.
I’m after the man—not his money or anything else.
