Just Don't Fall (Sweater Weather, #1; Appies, #1)

by Emma St. Clair

“I signed a contract to play hockey. Not dance.” Oh, boy. Who’s going to be the one to tell Logan Barnes he technically did sign a contract requiring dancing? Not it! Someone else can be the harbinger of bad news. I’ll keep hiding like a coward in the back of the Summit’s main conference room. I hunch down in my chair behind the rest of the Appies staff and the owner, Larry Jenson. I chose this seat along the wall intentionally, hoping to stay out of Logan’s view while also giving myself a discreet line of sight to admire him. I’m not ready for him to see me. Yet. But I’m more than happy to watch the man I haven’t talked to in ten years. While I covertly stare, I’m silently preparing to deal with Logan as a professional. Not as his ex-best friend's little sister who harbored a massive crush Logan hopefully never knew about. Yeah … let’s leave that past in the past. We’ll pretend my crush is still in the past too.

Logan’s statement is met with an awkward pause rather than an answer, his jaw flexes. It’s truly a sight to behold in person. Every bit as alluring as it is in the black and white commercials where he’s selling … body wash? Some kind of specialty watch? I wasn’t paying attention to the product. Just the man selling whatever it was. All I know is that jaw muscle (among other things) makes Logan Barnes a lot of money. His handsome features will NOT, however, get him out of the part of his contract specifically stipulating that he will be dancing. Like the rest of the team, Logan will be required to take part in videos for TikTok and other social media. Did he not read the contract? Or did his agent not give him a heads up? Glancing at Jeremy, I think his name is, I’d bet money he left this detail out when talking to Logan. He’s got the face of a man I wouldn’t trust to keep a succulent alive. Much less my career. My jaw practically fell through the floor when I heard Logan was kicked down from the NHL and signed to the Appies, Harvest Hollow’s minor league hockey team. We might be one of the best in the AHL, especially for being a fairly new affiliate. But we’re known first for our viral TikToks and second for hockey. Most of our players have huge social media presences and leverage them for more sponsorships and better contracts. Many are called up to the NHL. Logan, on the other hand, was sent down to us after he spent half a season out with a knee injury, followed by a fi...

Throats clear but still, no one speaks. It’s like everyone is silently drawing straws to see who’s going to tell Logan the bad news. I’ll take my invisibility as long as it lasts, thank you very much! Because at some point, I will be face to face with Logan. And as the social media manager arranging the dancing videos in question, I’m about to be the person who Logan despises most. Awesome. The tension in the room swells to the point of being almost painful until Grant, the team lawyer and the epitome of serious lawyer stereotypes, taps the contract on the table. “Actually, one of the stipulations of playing for the Appies is that, in addition to your typical hockey duties, you will have certain entertainment requirements. You’ll find it in section eight, clause three.” I lean slightly to the left, where I can see Logan’s mouth. It’s turned up in a sneer. For a man in the spotlight because of his job, Logan is almost a ghost. He’s never had social media. He rarely does interviews, and when he does, he gives one-word answers about his job and says nothing personal. Even his sponsorships and endorsements seem to be hand-picked to exclude talking. The man is a vault. Not so differe...

As though we’re all in a movie, heads dramatically swivel toward me. The two men in suits whom I’ve been hiding behind roll their chairs out of the way, affording Logan a direct view of me, hunched over my tablet in an uncomfortable chair along the wall. I suck in a breath as I wait for recognition to dawn in Logan’s eyes. When I imagined this moment—which I did countless times once I found out Logan was coming—I pictured Logan blinking in surprise when he saw me. Maybe he’d look me over with appreciation in his gaze. I mean, sure—I can’t compare to the models and actresses and other women I’ve seen pictured with Logan over the years. Not even close. But I’m decent looking. Definitely better than the last time he saw me with frizzy hair and braces. But Logan’s hard expression remains as his green gaze lands on me. I can’t tell if he genuinely doesn’t recognize me or if he’s just refusing to acknowledge our past personal connection in this professional setting. Either way, it totally sucks to be me right now. There is zero softening of his dangerously hard jaw or his flinty glare. I tell myself not to be crushed by his lack of acknowledgement. I mean, Logan ghosted me and my brot...

“What does this mean?” Logan asks in what would best be described as a growl. Too bad it’s an angry one, not a sexy one. Actually, no—it’s definitely both. “I’d like specifics.” “He does well with specifics,” Jeremy adds, like parroting what Logan says is having his back. I ignore the slimy agent instead of lobbing my tablet at his head and telling him to serve his client’s interests better. “Specifics I can do.” Swiping my tablet screen, I bring up the aforementioned section of the contract. It’s silly how my heart is racing and sweat is prickling at my hairline. I begin reading. “There will be no less than fifteen theatrical appearances per season, distributed across social channels as well as repurposed for⁠—” “English,” Logan says. Then, as though realizing how rude he sounds, he clears his throat and adds, “Please.” I set the tablet on my knees and meet his eyes head on. “We post at least one short-form video a day on TikTok, cross-posted to Instagram, with the content being combined and repurposed for YouTube later.” Logan only raises his dark brows slowly. I can almost hear him repeating English. I clear my throat, realizing that while I might not be talking in legalese, I’m using social media-speak. Already, I’ve lost the attention of half the room. Not Logan. He is laser-focused on me. I’m torn between withering and blooming under his attention. “We film a mix of content. Interviews. Clips from games, practice, the locker room. And yes—sometimes dancing or lip syn...

I make sure everyone is comfortable. I’ll do the same for you, just like any other player.” Only … Logan’s not any other player. And I don’t mean because he’s coming from an NHL team in Raleigh. He’s not like any other player to me. No one else chimes in, probably because now, Logan’s ire is directed toward me. They’re more than happy to let me take one for the team. Thanks, guys. Really feeling the love. I offer Logan my best smile—a real feat of strength considering the way my legs are shaking. “It won’t take up too much time. I film throughout the week then usually once or twice a month, we batch some bigger content.” “Batch?” Logan asks. “Filming several videos at once to post over time. Not every player will be involved in the longer portions. I keep a schedule and make sure it’s spread out pretty evenly.” There are a few guys who love the spotlight, and so long as their egos don’t become too monstrous, I let them have it. This also keeps the guys who want to do less happy. I’m not sure how it will work with Logan, who is still looking at me as though I’ve just set fire to his favorite sneakers. On the plus side, the glaring sure is making my crush curl up into a ball in the corner. Maybe to kill it, all I needed was a little Logan animosity. Unlike the thousands—millions?—of women who also have crushes on Logan Barnes, mine isn’t because he’s a hot hockey player. It’s not because of his rarely seen crooked grin or the sexy scar running from the corner of his lip down...

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 ...

I guess you could say it was crush at first cookie. Coach Davis jumps in, relieving me from Logan’s glare. “The Appies are glad to have you, Logan. I know you’ll bring good things to the team. We can hammer out these other details later.” That famous muscle ticks again in Logan’s jaw, and I think he’s going to argue or maybe insist again that he’s not going to dance no matter what his contract says, but he says nothing. Good boy. The first stage of acceptance is shutting up. And just like that, the meeting is over. Finally. I scurry out of the room, moving down the hall toward the elevator with my wounded pride in hand and my proverbial tail tucked between my legs. Not only did Logan not seem to remember me—ouch—but I can tell he’s going to make my job harder than it has to be. Short of having some kind of wardrobe malfunction or having someone read out loud my teenage diary confessing my love for Logan, I’m not sure how I could have enjoyed the meeting any less. To distract myself from obsessing, I check my calendar and to-do list for this week as I step into the elevator. Today is marked as a research, planning, and video editing day for me. The first preseason game is a few weeks away, which means we need to ramp up the actual hockey-playing videos. I’ll schedule time to attend practices and get some footage. The elevator doors start to close when a big hand appears, forcing them back open. And then Logan Barnes steps into the elevator. My lungs deflate. My heart slows ...

“Well, well, well,” Logan says. “If it isn’t little Peter Parker, all grown up.”

I’m not sure Parker realizes she’s backing away from me. Not like there’s anywhere to go. And that’s exactly why I cornered her on this elevator. In a complex teeming with people, I needed a moment alone with her. Parker. My former best friend’s little sister. My … friend? No, at four years younger than me, she wasn’t quite a friend back then. More like a borrowed pesky little sister. Only, she never got on my nerves like she did Brandon’s. And there’s nothing sisterly about how I feel now, standing this close to her. I can’t pinpoint exactly what I’m feeling. My emotions have been jumbled since I recognized Parker sitting in that conference room. Mostly, I was stunned that the gorgeous woman who somehow hid through most of the meeting was Parker. I think I hid my shock well. So well, in fact, she looked hurt, probably thinking I didn’t recognize or remember her. As though I could forget. It did take a few seconds, but only because I hadn’t expected Parker to be in the conference room. Back in the day, she had the singular ability to make me smile, something I rarely had reason to do.

She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.

Speaking of fiery … I'm not prepared when she shoves me, both palms pressed flat against my chest. I stumble back and then grasp her wrists, walking forward until her back is against the wall. “Don’t call me that, Wolverine,” she says. “Don’t call you little? Or don’t call you Peter Parker?” Her old nickname for me—taken from X-Men’s Logan, aka Wolverine—inspired mine for her. Though I usually shortened it to Pete. Stupid, maybe. But it traces back to middle school. That’s when I started playing hockey with Brandon and spent most afternoons at his place. Parker was in elementary school then. It’s amazing how four years’ age difference when you’re in school is massive. It’s nothing now. “I’m not little,” she sa...

Parker is nothing short of stunning, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the shift from my best friend’s adora...

“Would you have been any nicer if you recognized me right away?” “Unlikely.” 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.

Honestly, nowhere ever felt like home, so it shouldn’t have a scent. But it does, and it’s somehow attached to Parker. “Logan?” she says. “What are you doing?” “I …” I don’t know. Honestly. I don’t. And being this close to Parker, seeing her big brown eyes blinking up at me, feeling her muscles tense under my grip is only making it harder to locate words. My reaction to her should feel wrong when I think about who Parker was to me—Brandon’s little sister. Was she even in high school when I left Harvest Hollow at eighteen? Before I can scrape up some kind of answer or why things feel completely different now, Parker wiggles out of my grasp and pushes the button to start the elevator again. I watch as she regains control, feature by feature like she’s following a checklist or something. Loosen grip on tablet: check. Shake out neck and shoulders: check. Take a deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth: check. Reset expression to professional: triple check. It’s kind of impressive, really. And disappointing. Because I happen to like the less professional version of Parker I just saw—the one with her head thrown back while laughing or breathlessly staring up at me with her big doe eyes. The elevator doors slide open a moment later. “Walk with me,” Professional Parker says, waving for me to follow her without so much as glancing back. “We have things to discuss.” My stomach falls. I can guess what things she means. Like why I left without saying goodbye to the two p...

Parker’s office is hardly bigger than a closet with no window and outdated … everything. It also looks like a sticky-note store exploded. No motivational posters or framed pictures here—just every available wall surface covered in the small, colorful squares. “Whoa.” Parker grins as she drops into a cheap office chair that makes a horror-movie-esque sound. I’m a little surprised it holds her based on the severity of the groan. “There’s an order to my madness, I swear.” “I believe it.” And I do. The walls might be covered in sticky notes (some of her desk too), but they’re clearly organized. Maybe with a ruler. From the quick glance I give the closest set of fluorescent pink notes, even Parker’s loopy script is neat. Figures. “Didn’t you used to have two planners for every year?” She beams. “I did.” I can tell there’s something she isn’t saying. “You still do, don’t you?” “Yep. Only now it’s one physical, one digital.” Setting her tablet on the desk, she wiggles her mouse to wake up the bulky desktop computer. The motor whirring sounds like a helicopter taking off. I’m getting the sense from Parker’s noisy chair, old computer, and windowless office that the Appies’s budget does not lean heavily into office space. At least not for Parker. Larry was more than happy to show off his luxurious office and Malik, the manager, had one almost as big. “How old is that computer?” She sighs, scanning her phone. “Let’s just say they’ve discovered newer fossils. Sit.” I glance at the cha...

The real reason I’m against the idea of being forced into social media isn’t about who’s behind the camera. Hockey is my profession. My job. If I’ve earned a reputation for not being a team player, it’s less because I’m egotistical and more because I’m focused on being the best of the best. Hockey is serious business to me—even if I also happen to enjoy it. Dancing in videos for TikTok is ridiculous. The opposite of professional. I find myself imagining my father’s reaction. Not that he’ll ever see these videos. He certainly doesn’t follow my career. But if he did, it would confirm all the things he said when I called to tell him I first got drafted right out of high school. I was naive to hope getting drafted so young would impress the man who left before I was a year old. It was the second and the last time I talked to him in my life. “I hope you have a real job lined up,” he told me in lieu of congratulations. “Playing sports is just that—play. One day, probably sooner than you think, you’ll want to get serious and settle down. Make sure you’ve got your real life career set in place.” I hung up the phone, some deep part of me crushed more than I’ll ever admit out loud. It’s not uncommon for pro athletes to have families and friends crawling out of the woodwork begging for money, cars, houses. It totally sucks to be seen as nothing but a paycheck or nothing beyond the sport. It’s how my mom is. She doesn’t care how I’m doing; she just wants money deposited every month to...

reason I’m against the idea of being forced i...

Boss.” I’m saved from my dark thoughts when a big man fills the doorway. His eyes go from Parker to me, and he grins. He’s got a dark beard, darker eyes, and a shaved head. Probably one of my teammates. I realize now I should have looked at the roster before arriving. But I was too stuck in my head to even think about it. Now I’ll just look like some egomaniac who thinks he’s a big shot. “Van,” Parker says, leaning back in her chair, which makes a loud pop. I wait for it to break, but it holds. For now. “Aren’t you supposed to be with the trainer right now?” “Just stopped by to say hi,” he says, and I don’t like the way he’s smiling at Parker. More like—he just stopped by to flirt. Parker wiggles her fingers in a cutesy wave. “Well, then, hi. While you’re here, this is your newest teammate, Logan Barnes.” I stand, shaking his hand as we size each other up. He seems like a friendly guy, and I’d appreciate it more if he didn’t keep smiling at Parker like that. Since when am I the possessive type? Especially with someone I’m not even dating? But the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease until Van is gone after “welcoming” me. Okay, what he actually said is that he’s looking forward to tearing me up on the ice, but it’s the same thing. Parker leans forward again, looking like she’s about to launch into whatever she planned to tell me when she lured me in here, but another guy shows up. “Boss,” he says, knocking on the door frame. He doesn’t smile—doesn’t look capable, actually....

As soon as he’s gone, I fix my eyes on Parker. “Did you have something you wanted to meet about? Because⁠—” I don’t get to finish because one after another, what must be the whole team—or practically the whole team—pops in, one by one. Alec—the captain who somehow looks like a Disney prince come to life. Based on the way he struts, he might actually think he is a Disney prince. It makes me unreasonably happy when Parker rolls her eyes at him the second his back is turned. Then it’s Tucker and Dumbo—two defenders who come in together, making Parker’s small office feel even more cramped. I don’t bother to ask their real names. And a bunch more whose names I’ve forgotten. Every guy calls Parker Boss. All of them look at her in a way I don’t like. Not that they looked at her disrespectfully. The opposite actually—it’s clear they hold Parker in high regard. Which should ease my tension. Instead, it bugs me that these guys I don’t know and don’t trust have a familiarity with Parker that used to be mine. Totally unfair. But feelings aren’t always fair. After what must be twenty minutes of this, I’m ready to slam the door in the face of the next guy who tries to set foot inside. Thankfully, I don’t try it, because the last guy practically has to stand at an angle to fit in the doorway. Giving me a quick glance, he hands a paper across the desk to Parker. “I brought you that list, Boss,” he says. To me, he nods and says, “Hey, man.” I nod back, but Parker beams as her eyes scan the...

“Why don’t I talk you through how we’ll welcome you on social media?” Parker says. “It won’t be so bad. You’ll see.” Doubtful. There’s no way she could package this in a way that makes it not so bad. Unless she’s going to let me get away with not speaking and barely showing my face. Chances of that are nonexistent. “I’ll ease you in with a player profile,” Parker says, clicking her mouse until a printer whirs to life, sounding almost as loud as her computer. When Parker leans back to grab the single sheet from the printer, I tense, ready to leap across the desk and catch her if the chair gives way. I’m mildly disappointed I don’t get the chance to swoop in and save her. I’m no white knight, I chastise myself. Probably best not to pretend I am one. Righting herself in the chair, Parker slides a piece of paper my way. I glance down to see what looks like a form. “As soon as you fill it out, I’ll make a plan for a video interview. I already have some ideas. I’m lucky to have known you way back when. Even if a lot has changed.” She sounds sad when she says that. I wonder if she missed me as much as I missed her when we fell out of touch—more precisely, when I ghosted everyone from my past. Guilt is an emotion I don’t allow myself to feel most of the time. It’s wasted energy. And yet, seeing Parker, I’m filled with fresh guilt and a heavy dose of regret over my stupid barely-an-adult decisions. “And before you even think about not filling out the profile, it won’t get you out o...

Jerking my chin toward the door, I ask, “Is that normal? Do guys just drop in here to see you constantly?” Parker blinks at me. Then a slow smile steals over her face. “You don’t know?” I frown. “Know what?” “They all came here to see you, Barnes.” “Oh.” That’s unexpected. And now I feel like a jerk for not being more friendly. Still, I’d bet Parker has no idea how they all see her. Because it was obvious to me that most of the men who walked through the door would take any scrap she threw their way. Maybe they were here to meet me. But for many of them, that’s not the only reason. Either way, I’m not here to make friends. Not that I usually do anyway. But especially not here. The goal is to get in, prove my worth so my team wants me back, and get out. The end. “You have no idea how excited the team is to have you. Word of advice before you go?” I guess that’s my cue to be dismissed, so I pick up the player profile and nod. “Sure.” “At least pretend you’re excited to be here too.” I don’t respond because I’m not excited and not pretending to be. I’m resigned for now. Bitter at the turn my career has taken. Eager to get back to Raleigh. Or anywhere else. Just not … here. Only now...

“How’s it going down there?” he asks, peering over the side at morning practice. “It’s going. You know—same old.” I glance down, unable to help the way my eyes immediately zero in on Logan just as he takes a shot that Felix blocks. I can’t hear words from way up here, but based on body language, a couple of the guys skate by and make cracks to Logan. I smile. Welcome to the Appies, Wolverine. Getting razzed—which is probably way too innocent a term for the kinds of foul insults these guys hurl at each other—is just a part of being included on a team. They’re giving Logan a hockey-style welcome. In no time, he’ll be fully assimilated. And insulted. Same thing. Unless … Logan refuses to really be part of the team, keeping them all at a distance. My brother confessed a few years ago that he wasn’t all that surprised when Logan ghosted him. “I’m not sure I ever knew him. Like, we hung out. It was comfortable,” Brandon once told me. “It’s not like we didn’t talk. But Logan never went deep, and sometimes he would disappear.” I frown as Logan shoves Nathan, who is inarguably the last guy you want to shove. It takes Tucker and Dumbo and Coach to separate the two of them. Not the best showing. I stop filming and delete the video I was taking. Javi makes a disapproving sound, and I can’t blame him. “Come on, Logan,” I mutter, willing him with the force of my mind to be better. I know he’s probably changed in the years since I’ve seen him, but I still know him. I do. Our talk in my o...

even if being around Logan is bad for my own pathetic heart, I do want to see him bond with the rest of the Appies. This team is full of great guys. Flawed and human and, well, hockey players—with the foul mouths and the women and the egos—but still great. There’s Van—way too into the ladies, who are into him right back. Watching his behavior off the ice makes me want to bathe in hand sanitizer. Nathan is a total grouch with a teensy, tiny bit of an anger problem. One that might be helped if Larry would listen to me about requiring weekly or even monthly therapy sessions for the guys. The whole team would benefit, even if Nathan is the one who needs it most. From what I’ve seen, Logan would be a close second. Felix would spend his time alone with a book just as easily as he’d have the whole team over. I’m still trying to decide if our goaltender is an introvert or extrovert. “Things are just the same old?” Javi says. “Really?” “Yep. Why wouldn’t it be?” “Logan Barnes.” I ignore the way hearing his name makes my heart skip, and instead adjust my phone to move into landscape mode. I haven’t gotten much footage for YouTube lately. TikTok is our main focus, especially with the younger demographic, but we have several hundred thousand followers on YouTube, which I need to keep fed with new, longer form content in addition to the shorts. Yep. Let’s focus on content creation and not Javi’s baiting. I’m not even sure how Javi could possibly know what a big deal Logan’s arrival is ...

When I look down at the ice, it reminds me of my figure skating days with a cloyingly sharp bittersweetness. Not that figure skating was my dream. It wasn’t. I wanted to play hockey like Brandon. My father, being the master puppeteer he is, refused to pay for me to play hockey. Even more, he wouldn’t sign any parental consent forms when I told him I’d just use my babysitting money to cover the cost. Brandon even offered to help chip in. My mom, bless her sweet soul, is always on Team Dad and wouldn’t cave when I begged her to sign the forms. Even though I suspect she silently disagreed with Dad about this. So, it was either figure skating or no skating. There were things I ended up loving. Mostly the sensation of flying across the ice and launching my body into the air. It’s truly magical to leap and then to land—when I landed correctly. There were plenty of times I didn’t, and the flying preceded a painful fall. But the moments of pure freedom and perfect landings ended all too quickly. The pressure was immense. Being watched and judged for the tiniest of technical mistakes. Not to mention all the unwanted attention on my body, my outfits, even my expressions. When you’re going through puberty while wearing skintight sparkles under a spotlight, it’s impossible not to feel self-conscious. For the first time in years, I wonder if I could land some of my old jumps. My muscle memory still retains the knowledge of how to do a lutz, but I question my current ability to land it ...

“What do you need, Dad?” “Can’t I simply call my daughter to check in?” “Of course you can. But you don’t. You get your updates from Mom and only call when you need something. So, what do you need?” “Parker,” he says in a warning tone that still makes me want to cower. Even if now, I don’t. My father isn’t a cruel man. Just overbearing and demanding, running our household like a business, doling out commands and expecting our immediate compliance. Mom mostly doesn’t mind going along with him. So long as he doesn’t stop her from heading up dozens of committees focused on charity work. She’s smart and kind—but her loyalty and blinding love toward my father is her fatal flaw. I’m proud of what she does—mainly getting wealthy people to write big checks to worthy causes—even if she’s disappointed, I don’t want to do the same. Or work for Dad like Brandon does. Mom doesn’t guilt trip me or get passive aggressive—it’s not her style. But I just know she’d love for me to be more connected with our family, the business, or with charitable work. My brother toes the party line most of the time, though he holds no illusions and even less respect for our father. If Brandon wants to take over EverTech one day—which he definitely does—he has to play my father’s game. Thankfully, he is not as much like our father in terms of personality, even if he shares Dad’s sharp intellect and business acumen. And me? I’m the black sheep who went to a liberal arts college, majored in communication, and...

The Wagners are important to my dad, but I forget why and frankly, I don’t care. The way Aaron kept incessantly hitting on me while staring at my chest—which, if I’m being totally honest, isn’t all that much to write home about—tempted me to poke him in the eye with one of the breadsticks. The only reason I refrained was because the breadsticks were fantastic. Aaron Wagner isn’t even worth a good breadstick to the eye.

I don’t need you to set me up with someone.” Especially not Aaron. “It’s already done,” he says. “No,” I say. “It really isn’t.” And then, I start down a stupid and dangerous path—one paved with lies. “I have a date.” There’s a pause where Dad takes in my words. Regrouping, probably. Planning his countermeasures. “Who are you bringing?” he demands. “It doesn’t matter who,” I say, trying to scramble for some idea of who I can name. More than that, who I could actually bring. Because I cannot tell my father I have a date and then show up alone. “I’m not going with Aaron. Or any other son of some important business partner.” I’m distracted by movement on the ice. Eli has spotted me up here and is waving with his puppy-like enthusiasm. Van stops beside him and blows me a kiss. I wave back, grinning. Such goofballs. When Logan looks up, skating the periphery of the rink, my stomach does a little shimmy. Even from afar, his attention affects me. Dad’s voice jerks me back into the unpleasant conversation I’m currently having. “How do I know you haven’t made up some fictional date just to get out of going with Aaron?” My father is a smart man. The track record of his business is a testa...

My stupid parking space might be overpriced, but the ten-minute walk from the lot to my apartment calms me down. Every time. Though today, admittedly, the charming vibe of the historic downtown isn’t working its usual magic. At least, not on me. The handfuls of tourists strolling the streets seem to be enjoying it just fine. Probably because they don’t have Logan Barnes on the brain. Tucked out of the way in the Appalachian Mountains between Asheville and Knoxville, Harvest Hollow has become quite the vacation destination. Especially in fall. Even now, when it’s early September and the leaves have barely started to hint at changing colors, there’s just something in the air. I swear, it’s like I can practically hear a chant: Fall! Fall! Fall! The air feels crisp, smells like smoke and pumpkin spice lattes, and the whole town seems to vibrate with the anticipation of cooler temperatures and some of the best fall foliage in the country. Literally. We were voted Number Two Most Gorgeous Fall Town last year, only being beaten by someplace in Vermont. I’ve never been that far north, but if anyone could beat our fall leaves, even I can concede to the birthplace of maple syrup. But I think the citizens of Harvest Hollow took the number two spot as a personal affront and challenge. The Beautification Committee is out for blood. Fall decor started going up in August this year, sneaking in the same way Christmas decor now appears in big box stores in October next to Halloween skeleto...

I take a deep inhale, wishing there were some way to bottle this whole fall vibe up. I’d make a killing selling it online, marketing it as a fall elixir powerful enough to almost make you forget your old crush. Okay, fine—the town magic is totally working on me.

The General Store lives up to its name with a pharmacy in back and a random assortment of goods from T-shirts to greeting cards to the very basic food staples you might need in the zombie apocalypse: canned soups, saltine crackers, and pasta. Perfect for nights like tonight, when I’d rather pop in here than go to the actual grocery store. The bell jangles as I walk inside, and Mel barely looks up from her Archie comic. “Did you run out of ramen again, Parker?” Mel calls from behind the counter. Her long, white hair is twisted into a gorgeous braid crown. I swear, every time I see the woman, she’s got some new amazing hairstyle. Meanwhile I’ve got two looks: down in messy waves or up in a messy ponytail. If I’m feeling extra saucy (read: lazy), maybe a messy bun. “Not so loud!” I tease, grabbing a three-pack of ramen. “Can’t have you ruining my reputation.” Mel only chuckles. “What reputation?” “Ouch, Mel. Ouch.” But … she’s not wrong. Other than my job working for the Appies and the fact that my dad runs EverTech, I don’t make waves. I’m too boring to have a reputation. And that’s just fine with me! “Even so, I’d prefer the whole town not know that I still exist on a college kid food staple.” “It’s our secret.” Mel makes a motion zipping her lips. I don’t really care who knows, to be honest. I have no shame. Though I can only imagine what my parents would say if they knew I buy food that’s three packs for a dollar when I could be eating chef-prepared meals at home with the...

My brother’s face and name flashes across the screen. He and I talk several times a week, but him calling today is highly suspicious. It could be because Brandon heard Logan started today. Or, it could be because Logan started today and Dad told Brandon I’m bringing Logan to the gala. My brother will—to put it mildly—not approve. And I haven’t figured out how to untangle or explain away my bold-faced lie. Yet. Until then, I really, really don’t want to talk to Brandon. Not on the phone. Not in person. Not in a box or with socks or any other rhyming or non-rhyming places. But if my brother could be summed up in one word, it would be persistent. The man could wear down a diamond, crushing it back into coal. He immediately calls back when I don’t answer. I groan and gird up my metaphoric loins. Mouthing Sorry! to Mel, I pass her my debit card and answer Brandon’s call. “How was his first day?” Brandon demands before I’m even done saying hello. “Heard he was standoffish.” I breathe out a very real sigh of relief. This line of questioning means he doesn’t know about my Logan lie. Brandon definitely would have led with that. And of course Brandon would know Logan started today and how things went. He has someone on the team who serves as his eyes and ears. Aka: a spy and a snitch. And when I find out who … “Calm down, fanboy,” I tell him. “I am not a fanboy,” Brandon scoffs. There may be bad blood between my brother and his former best friend, but I happen to know Brandon follow...

do you have any pertinent things to discuss?” “Like Dad’s gala?” I start to sweat under my jacket. We’re walking awfully close to the landmine that is my big lie. “Can we talk about something more pleasant, please? Like inflation?” Brandon chuckles. “Still in denial about the gala, huh?” “What gala?” Brandon laughs. “You know he doesn’t believe you can find a date on your own, right?” Normally, this would start a verbal lashing back and forth. But right now, I’m just grateful. Because now I’m certain Brandon doesn’t know about my lie. “Is it so hard to believe?” I ask lightly. “Not because you’re not awesome, Park.” “Aw, thank you! That was almost a compliment.” “It’s because you never date.” What is it with my family and my dating life today? I SWEAR. “I date.” “What’s the name of the last guy you went on a date with?” Brandon demands. “Jere … brian.” I clear my throat. “Jerebrian.” “Sounds like a winner.” “It’s not his fault his parents chose a terrible name.” Or that he doesn’t exist and I made him up just now. “So, are you bringing Jerebrian to the gala?” “No. It didn’t work out.” “Why not?” Brandon asks, and I just know he knows that Jerebrian isn’t real and is waiting for me to admit it. I’d prefer to double down instead. “Jerebrian, as it turns out, lives with his parents. And has no job. And also Mr. Eds didn’t like him.” Brandon snorts. “Your cat hates everyone. Including you.” He’s not wrong. My rescue cat spends most of his time skulking under my furniture and t...

My chest constricts a little at the sight of a couple strolling hand in hand a few blocks away. They pause at Book Smart, the adorable bookstore where I’d happily spend my entire paycheck if I could. When the man holds the door open for the woman, stealing a kiss as she passes, I want to shout, “He’s a keeper!” but I hold back. Despite what I told Brandon, there have been no Jerebrians in a long time. My dating life has tumbleweeds the size of buildings blowing through it. I tell myself it’s because I’m focused on work. Which is true. I’m busy. And, fine—I might have slight workaholic tendencies. But that’s not why my proverbial dance card stays empty. File that under: it’s complicated. And I’m picky. I turn down the small alley where the walkup to my apartment is, setting my bag down. I need both hands to manage the outer door, which has a nasty habit of sticking. Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures, but today, the door isn’t just sticking, it’s stuck. I shimmy the handle, then give the door a good kick. “Come on, door. Be a good door.” I try cajoling first, using baby talk like I’m trying to convince a puppy to obey. But a wiggly puppy would be more responsive. The door gives me nothing. I switch tactics, ramming my hip into it. “You have one job!” I scold. “And it’s to open! Do your job, door!” “What’d that door do to you?” a deep voice calls. I freeze as Logan appears beside me. This cannot be my new reality, where he just appears at will in my life. I don’t have the co...

Dear door, I was wrong to reprimand and criticize you. You have given me this beautiful gift, and I shall forever be grateful.

you okay, Parker?” Logan sounds worried, but also like he’s as breathless and affected by this as I am. Affected by the fall, probably. Not by the way our bodies fit together so well. Whereas that is ALL I can think about. Better enjoy it! This will be the only time ever. “I’m fine?” I say, far more question than statement. “Are you sure?” “No?” He chuckles, which sends a delicious shiver through me. Because I feel the rumble of the laughter as his chest vibrates against mine. He starts to shift, and I want to whine as his weight lifts off me. “I have to be crushing you,” he says. “I’m good,” I say. Really good. To cover up JUST in case he can hear my thoughts and know that I never, ever want him to move, I add, “You’re feeling a little light there, Barnes. Maybe we need to increase your caloric intake. Get the trainer to help pack some more muscle on you.” “I guess you’d know better than anyone.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I would?” “You’re currently feeling up my abs.” I’m WHAT? While I’ve been focused on things like Logan’s hand cupping the back of my head and his stubble on my cheek, somehow I missed the very pertinent fact that my hand snuck its way underneath his shirt like a little thief. And my hand is not passively resting on but actively stroking his six pack. Or is it eight? Definitely an eight-pack. I jerk my hand away and immediately try to wiggle out from under Logan. “I am so sorry! It must be … an involuntary reaction.” He shifts his weight, allowi...

I study him, wondering if maybe he has changed. Maybe he laughs all the time now. Maybe the rumors about him being intense and serious and having a quick temper were all exaggerations. But then I remember how he was in the conference room earlier. Hard. Angry. Dismissive. That seemed like a different man from the relaxed, teasing, laughing version in front of me. And the one who trapped me in the elevator and joked in my office. “What?” he asks. I shake my head. “I’m just trying to decide how you’ve changed. If you’ve changed.” “And? What’s the verdict?” “Unsure. I’ll let you know.” Logan tilts his head, and I will my cheeks not to blush under his gaze. “Well, you haven’t changed,” he says after a moment. “Still the same Parker I remember.” And … there’s the inevitable disappointment as reality punches me right in the windpipe. Logan thinks I haven’t changed. He last saw me a little over ten years ago. When I was fifteen. Practically a baby. I have changed. I’ve changed a lot. But if Logan still sees me as the same awkward kid he knew, as Brandon’s dorky little sister, then … I don’t even know what to do with that. I do know it means I cannot hold out any hope of my feelings bei...

“Almost done,” Parker says, wiping her face with her forearm and grinning over at me. “Are you sure you want to eat something I cooked?” “I trust you, Pete.” Her grin turns mischievous. “You trust me not to burn it or not to poison it?” “I didn’t think about poisoning. Is that a thing I should be worried about?” “We’ll see,” she says, dropping something in a pot on the stove. Hopefully, not hemlock or arsenic. I'm trying to relax, still telling myself that this is okay. Parker invited me in. This is fine. But it’s the first time I remember being in someone’s personal space in longer than I care to remember. Curiosity made me decide to stay—wanting to spend more time around Parker, to see who she is now. That and the sense of ease I have just being around her. Since my knee injury, surgery, and months of recovery, I’ve spent a lot of time alone. My physical therapist and Jeremy are the only people I’ve talked to at length. And by at length, I mean short and sporadic conversations. Now, I’m filling my conversation quota. And then some. For the last twenty minutes, Parker has happily chatted away while she cooks and I sit at her small table and observe. She used to be talkative. But this is a lot even compared to pint-sized Parker. Is she nervous? Excited? On a caffeine high? I’m not sure. But I don’t mind the chatter. I find myself smiling while I listen.

Watching Parker is better than Netflix. She moves like a cheerful gale-force wind through the tiny kitchen, banging pots and thwacking her knife into the cutting board, all while telling me every conceivable fact about the Appies. I can't help but notice she says very little about herself. And doesn’t mention Brandon at all. While listening and watching, I make my own observations. She still loves pink, which is the one color I see throughout her apartment. I guess she likes to cook, which is new. She wasn’t kidding about burning cookies when she was little, and I wonder how and when this changed. I hate that there’s a whole lot of blank space in my knowledge of what Parker has been doing for the last ten years. If she kept competing in figure skating. Where she went to college. Who she’s dating. Not that her relationship status is any of my business. It’s definitely my fault I don’t know any of these things. A low growling sound has me whipping my head toward the couch. I don’t see anything, but then I hear it again. It sounds like it belongs in some kind of horror movie. “Do you have a dog?” I ask, still eyeing the sofa. Parker rolls her eyes. “That’s just Mr. Eds. He’s a cat.” “You like cats now? And what kind of name is Mr. Eds? Plural?” “It’s short for Evil Demon Spawn,” she says, like this is a totally normal name for a cat. Or anything else. “And no, I don’t like cats. But I used to volunteer at the shelter, and no one would adopt him. He was set to be euthanized, s...

“How was your first day?” Parker asks. “Were the guys nice?” They were, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m used to showing up, giving it all on the ice, and going home. Not bonding or making friendship bracelets. But I can tell from Parker’s eager face that she’s hoping for more. “It was good. They were fine.” “Man of many words,” she says with a smile and a roll of her eyes. “One thing hasn’t changed much.” I grunt in response, hoping she’ll laugh. She does, and I fight back a smile. “I saw you filming today.” “Yeah—and?” “It didn’t look so bad,” I admit. Right after practice, she filmed a segment with Tucker and Dumbo on the bench, holding and discussing a book. It was quick, and looked mostly like they were talking to each other and then faking a fight. “Though I don’t get how books are involved.” Her cheeks flush and she focuses hard on the soup she’s stirring. “Hockey romance is a big thing. I’m trying to reach a crossover audience of readers as well. But while keeping with our, um, family friendly vibe, just considering our target audience.” I frown, wondering what’s in the books that wouldn’t be family friendly. And does Parker read hockey romance? “Anyway,” Parker says, o...

“How is it being back in Harvest Hollow?” she asks. Okay, now we’re moving into less easy territory. I shift in my chair. “I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” I say honestly. “It’s an adjustment.” “Your mom moved, right?” she asks. “Florida.” My voice is clipped, and Parker must read my reaction, because there are no follow-up questions. Instead, she sets a bowl in front of me. I stare down at it for a few seconds, blinking as I take in the sight and the spicy aroma. “I know,” she says, taking the seat across the small table from me. “It’s just cheap ramen and has almost zero nutritional value.” She thinks I’m disappointed? I just sat and watched her chop things and doctor up a cheap meal to make it something else. “This looks great,” I say. Honestly, it does. What’s more, I don’t remember the last time someone so much as microwaved a burrito for me. At least, someone who wasn’t a paid employee. “You’ll need to stop somewhere later for more protein to feed”—she glances across the table, her gaze sweeping over me as a blush paints her cheeks—“all that.” I chuckle. “My abs really did come up short in your exam, huh?” My teasing sounds flirty. And I never flirt. I’m not sure what’s...

“Enough talking,” Parker says, expertly lifting her chopsticks to her mouth. “Time for eating.” I’m impressed by her dexterity as she expertly delivers noodles to her mouth with the chopsticks. But then, in classic Parker fashion, she slurps the last curly noodle between her lips, giggling. I don’t try to look away from her mouth this time. “Why aren’t you eating?” she asks, noting the way my hands are still in my lap. “Any chance I can get a fork?” I ask. “Chopsticks and I don’t really get along.” Parker pins me with a look. “You balance that big body on tiny blades, and you can’t use two sticks to pick up food?” “I can’t be great at everything.” I smirk, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back. Parker only rolls her eyes. “This will not do.” Scooting her chair back, she wipes her mouth with a napkin and stands. But instead of walking over to the silverware drawer, she steps behind my chair. “What are you doing?” Suddenly I’m hot all over as Parker leans over me, draping her arms over mine. It’s the same electric heat I felt earlier when I practically tackled her through the doorway downstairs. These are all feelings I’d best ignore. Parker picks up the chopsticks, then...

With windows down and classical music playing at a low volume, I cruise back down Maple, glancing up as I pass Parker’s place. Her front window is dark now, and I picture her leaving the dishes in the sink and heading to bed. I really should have offered to help wash up. Next time. Nope—there should be no next times. Not if I want to avoid another confusing and volatile tripwire of emotion. But it felt good to be with Parker. Her apartment is cozy—small but airy with its high ceilings and large windows. There were architectural details I don’t know the names of, like some kind of fancy molding and what looked to be tin plates on the ceiling. Parker’s whole energy filled the space, making the size seem just right, even for someone like me who barely fit at the kitchen table. It felt welcoming, homey, and so very Parker. The apartment next to it had a For Lease sign, a pesky voice reminds me. Bad idea, a more practical part of my brain answers. It’s probably just as small as Parker’s. Nothing like the sprawling house I purchased in Raleigh. But then, I don’t like all the space in the mid-century modern ranch my last real estate agent urged me to buy. All that space—too empty and too quiet—closed in around me at night. It was a reminder of how insubstantial my life is: just one big empty box. It’s why I started sleeping in the walk-in closet. I didn’t feel the sense of insignificance and claustrophobia. Does it make any sense that I felt less trapped in a small space? No. But...

in minutes, I’m passing the stadium and pulling into the hotel parking lot. The place isn’t huge, and my suite is pretty basic, but it’s easy. Close. And if I don’t plan to stay long, it will do just fine. No need to look at apartments with distracting neighbors. “Welcome back, Mr. Barnes.” The woman behind the front desk smiles a little too eagerly as soon as the automatic doors whoosh closed behind me. “Can I interest you in a turn-down service?” The glint in her eyes promises more than just a turn-down service. “No, thanks.” I’m pretty sure this is the same woman who fell all over herself this morning when I picked up an extra key to replace the one I somehow already lost. She’s not in her work uniform now, something I only notice as she—oh, jeez—steps out from behind the desk in some kind of minidress. I pull out my phone—always a good distraction. Appear busy. Disinterested. Don’t make eye contact. Usually, women take the hint. Or not. Her heels click behind me as I make my way to the bank of elevators. “Or maybe a drink?” she offers, her voice low. “I’m good.” “Good? I could make you better.” I don’t give her the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, I push through the door to the stairwell and start up at a jog. She won’t follow me, but she might beat me up if she’s persistent enough to take the elevator. And sadly, I know from experience, some of these kinds of fans are. I move into a sprint, stopping at the next floor to push the elevator button, which might slow her...

I collapse on the bed and pull out my phone. There’s a text from a number not in my contacts. Unknown: This is Felix. We met today. Just wanted to say welcome to the team. I plug in his name even as a few more texts pop up. Felix: If you ever need a break from all the noise but don’t want to be alone, text me. Felix: Full disclosure—Parker told me to text you. I was planning to anyway, but now I feel like I have to say that she asked everyone. Prepare for your phone to blow up. You’ve been warned. I appreciate his honesty, as well as his almost unheard-of use of punctuation. As well as his warning, which turns out to be timely. As I plug in my phone and turn it off, the screen is already exploding with texts. Leave it to Parker. One thing that for sure hasn’t changed is her habit of butting into my life. Like the way she used to give me critiques after every game. She was usually right too. Or the way she would tell me all the things wrong wit...

I walk into the Summit the next day with my completed player profile in hand. Did I fill it out because I was afraid of what Parker might do if I didn’t? No. Did I do it just to have an excuse to stop by Parker’s office after practice? I dare anyone to try and prove it. “Knock, knock, Boss.” Parker glances up from her computer, sees me, and drops her phone. I try not to smile as she disappears under her desk. When her head pops back up, she looks flustered, but tries to hide it behind a smile. “Barnes,” she says, eyeing the paper in my hand while toying with a ring on her thumb. “Do you have something for me?” I hold the profile out, then snatch it back when she reaches for it. “Will this get me out of dancing?” “No promises. Did you mention that you hate dancing on your profile?” The truth is—I don’t hate dancing. I rarely dance, but only because that usually means being somewhere public. And being somewhere public means people are watching me, maybe even filming me. It’s hard to let go and enjoy when that’s on my mind. But when I have had the opportunity, the same calm I feel on the ice settles over me when the music pulses loud and I’m able to let loose.

When I woke up far too early this morning, I caved and downloaded TikTok and got sucked into the Appies feed. It’s surprisingly entertaining. I can see the stamp of Parker all over it—the creativity and the humor. Years ago, she was always making some kind of craft or project. Now, it seems she’s turned that energy to social media. While some of the videos are dancing, a lot of them are of the guys just lip syncing and there are a lot of them actually playing, sometimes with humorous sound clips over them from shows like The Office and Schitt’s Creek. Still. Getting sucked in to watching the videos doesn’t mean I’m any more eager to be in them. “It’s more that I don’t like being in the spotlight.” She tilts her head, studying me before dropping her gaze and clearing her throat. Her chair makes an unholy noise as she shifts. I frown. Why hasn’t she had this thing replaced? It’s clearly a hazard. “Logan, I hate to tell you this but you’re a professional athlete,” she says. “In case you missed it, your life is the spotlight.” I take a step closer to her desk, skimming a few of her sticky notes there, all of which seem to be related to video trends I don’t know or particularly want to know. “I don’t mind being in the spotlight for hockey. It’s everything else I don’t like. Like news stories and gossip sites spreading lies about me.” She goes still. The kind of still that makes me really look at her. Suddenly, she seems flustered. Or maybe nervous. Her pointer finger is still m...

I get that this team is into social media and stuff. I’ll do what I have to. But as much as possible, I’d prefer to be in the background.” Parker sighs, relaxing a little. “People are so excited you’re here, Logan. They want to see you. It’s good for the team. Good for the organization. Good for the town, who still claims you as its hero. The Harvest Hollow Happenings already has several posts with photos of you around town.” “The what?” “Just this gossipy Instagram account and—you know what? Never mind. The point is—this could be good for you too if you want to capitalize on it. A lot of the Appies have gotten pretty sweet gigs usually not offered to guys in the AHL.” “I’m glad. But I don’t need that.” Money isn’t a worry for me. “Playing nice here will also help you get back to the NHL faster,” she says. I’m not sure why I want to deny that this is my endgame. I mean, who would choose the AHL over the NHL? But I still have trouble saying it out loud. Maybe because it’s Parker, and already I’m feeling a surprising attachment to her. One day is all it took for her to wiggle her way under my skin. Just like she did back then. I stare at her across the desk—her big brown eyes, dar...

“Let’s make a deal, Pete,” I say. “Something I could do as a favor to you in order to stay in the background.” Parker goes completely still. It’s almost creepy, like one of those moments in movies where all the animals in the woods stop making noise because something terrible is out there, poised to attack. I frown. “What?” “Nothing.” Parker lets go of the paper and pushes her chair back, putting more distance between us. The chair makes several loud popping sounds but, miraculously, it still doesn’t break apart. “Parker.” She busies herself looking through a drawer, her dark hair falling over her cheek and hiding her expression. “It’s not nothing. I may not have seen you for years, but I can still read you better than most people can.” I could swear she mutters I hope not under her breath. But then she slams the drawer, and swivels to face me again. There’s color in her cheeks, a cotton candy pink. She’s chewing her lip. And her eyes are a little wild. She looks adorable, but that’s not why my heart is thudding like a kick drum in my chest. It’s because I have a feeling that whatever she’s about to say may not be something I want to hear. “I might have a deal we could make,” sh...