Logan
but that wouldn’t stop Logan from taking to the ice and bringing the boys along with him. The summer afternoon wasted away, but Logan preferred the rush of cold streaking down his skin as he skirted around the rink, goaded by hollers from his teammates.
He skidded to a stop with the utmost control and swung his stick to rest upon his shoulders. Laughter tumbled from his lips while surveying the slight chaos breaking out, courtesy of the Larson twins attempting to headlock one another and stumbling over the ice. The poor newcomers had the look of a deer in headlights plastered across their faces.
“Boys! Stop fighting!” Logan whistled, skating back toward the middle. He swiped at their ankles with his stick and broke up the brotherly scuffle before one of them successfully caught the other. “Coach will be back any moment.”
“Please, he always takes at least half an hour on the phone . . . and that's with a random person. I saw his wife's photo on the call screen," Dominic scoffed, dodging around Logan's stick. Oliver, however, wasn't fast enough to avoid a light smack against his ankles.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I won’t put you to work.”
"Aye, aye, Captain.”
Playfully, Logan rolled his eyes and whistled to gather everyone. Each day brought them closer to the start of the hockey season, and Logan’s thoughts fixated on its approach. He missed the rush in his veins during the height of a game, either while on the ice or from his spot on the bench cheering for the team.
Hockey reminded him that he was alive.
He hoisted his stick over his shoulder and glanced around, "Alright, I'm going to number you off with either a one or two. Ones take the left side of the rink and twos on the right side. Dominic, you'll be one. Oliver will be two. Count down the line."
He helped the first few people after the Larsons with their number, but the momentum continued without him guiding everyone. He pointed to each person, running a silent count in his head. By the end, Logan signaled to Marc to join him at the front, leaning into him, “You want one or two?”
“Give me two.”
“Two it is.”
"Alright, twos, you're with me. I think the captain wants us to practice shooting.” Marc shouted, and a cheer rose up from the ranks. Logan nodded and headed for the left half, divided nicely by the bright red center line.
He skated into the goal on his side and stretched to crackling in his shoulders and back. He hadn’t played in the crease as a goalie since middle school, but he remembered a thing or two. Hopefully.
“Here’s the rules.” Logan adjusted his gloves, dragging warmth back into his hands. "Everyone has to start from their blue line to score a point. You can't go behind the blue line and can't cross the face-off circles closest to the goal, but the rest of the space is free game. Once you shoot, you switch sides and go to the back of the other line. Marc and I will focus on deflecting shots.”
“Yes, Captain!”
“Let’s get it started then!”
Logan crouched toward the ice with his stick in hand, eyes fixated on Dominic as the first up to score. He knew Dominic's bag of tricks almost as well as Oliver. The Larson twins were showoffs, for lack of a better word, who liked to pull out flashy moves and crowd pleasers.
He trailed Dominic’s every move while he prowled over the ice, playing with the puck and dragging it across the small zone of playable ground. But when his other senses dimmed, Logan slid headfirst into the zone.
They had less than two months until hockey season started. While the summer plans to build the hype entering the season hadn’t panned out how he hoped, Logan refused to lose sight of the end goal. The path from being the underdog would be worth every bruise, every sore limp to his truck, and all the exhausted hours torn between practice and home.
Logan exhaled and saw the twitch of Dominic’s arm before he readied the stick to swing. He lunged forward and blocked the puck before it could hurtle past him into the net. A smirk pulled at his lips. Point for Logan.
The overdramatic groaning from Dominic and the jeers from others on the team coaxed him out of his head for a split second. Logan smacked the puck to the next lucky player in line and leaned on his stick, “Better luck next time, Dom! Switch lines and see if Marc will go easy on you.”
He ignored Dominic's flash of a middle finger before skating to the other line, too busy readying for the next player. Logan crouched lower to the ground; he watched Marc play goalie enough times to pick up a few moves like body blocks.
Logan scrambled to deflect the puck when he heard the contact between a wooden stick and rubber, a thundering echo as the puck launched toward Logan. In the test between an aerodynamic hunk of rubber and his reflexes, Logan should consider himself lucky that his body reacted faster than his brain.
Several shocked laughs followed when he pretended to wipe the sweat from his brow, sending the puck back to the next player in line.
He whistled, “How are they doing, Marc?”
"No one's getting past me," his friend shouted from across the rink, and the blissful thwack sound followed immediately afterward. "How about you?"
“I’m holding my own—” Logan’s sentence faltered midway through when the whoosh of wind slid between his skates as a puck sailed into the net, taking full advantage of his distracted state. He retrieved the puck and smacked it back toward the line. "I gave you that one for free."
“Yeah, right.”
“Whatever you say, Captain.”
Logan scoffed and smacked the puck across the ice to the next shooter in line, back to focusing. His training methods would be brutal initially, but he hoped they accurately prepared every player for the ice.
He squatted closer to the ice and caught a puck sailing toward him, smiling when Parsons nervously shuffled up to the line. He held his stick and looked a little green, all wide-eyed and throat bobbing with a rough swallow.
“Take a breath, Parsons. You’ll be a-okay.” Logan knocked the puck to him, lighter than he would for a team member with one season under his belt. He remembered the nerves when he started in the USHL, treating training like the NHL. He had more respect for players taking it too seriously than not seriously enough. "If you feel like passing out, let me know so we can grab the med kit."
“I’m okay!” said Parsons, but Logan observed him with a careful eye as he lined up the puck with his stick. A few guys behind Parsons in line leaned forward and clapped him on the back, mouthing what Logan assumed were words of encouragement to their new Winter Wolf.
Logan straightened his posture and expected Parsons to skate forward, take advantage of the space between him and the goal to shoot. But movement in his peripheral stole Logan’s attention. He glanced toward the second level when he saw her in the windows overlooking the ice, forgetting about his teammates.
Ava.
Her high ponytail swished with her every step. A pair of skates dangled from her gloved hands. He recognized the training clothes she wore. At the sight of her, irritation pierced his thoughts like a splitting, angry headache.
“She shouldn’t be here.” His face tensed behind a scowl. Logan held his hands above his head when she waltzed down the ramp, calling for a time-out without a word. All the skaters on the ice paused and awaited his instruction, but Logan had a bone to pick with Little Miss Perfect.
He skated to the rink's edge, posting up by the entrance onto the ice. Ava spotted him, and her smile slipped into a flat expression. Logan accepted the mutual dislike as the first honest thing about Ava Laurier.
She didn’t like him. He didn’t like her—the first and only thing they could agree on.
She cleared her throat and pulled back one of the ears of her chunky headphones, blaring the unmistakable sounds of an orchestra loud enough for Logan to hear a sizable distance away. “Logan. Can I help you?”
"I should be asking you that," Logan remarked, leaning against the rink's edge, one hand gripping the wall to prop him up. He raked his eyes over her and noticed how she squared her shoulders. Her chin jutted out, and she forced a scowl, which hardly looked believable. "What are you doing here?"
"In case you've forgotten, the rink's mine at three P.M. I'm here to practice like you. Gold medals aren't won without hard work and dedication."
“Cute dig.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Logan rolled his eyes, "I'm well aware of your request for rink time today, but you can wait for your proper turn. I don't accommodate whatever you want, carte blanche."
“Then maybe you should look at the clock.” Ava’s little scoff added a fresh dose of annoyance straight into Logan’s veins. He swore she enjoyed being a pain in his ass with her doe eyes and radiating aura of how much better she was than everyone else. "You've overstayed your welcome."
Logan had a witty comeback prepared until he looked toward the overhead clock, feeling the words evaporate off his tongue. The bright red glow of the clock flashed the time: three-oh-five.
He stared at the clock for an extra beat and reined in the urge to fight for the hell of it, not to pick a battle he couldn’t win. Logan shuffled back around and ignored Ava’s smugly raised brow.
“Guys, clear off the ice! Marc, go grab the Zamboni guy so he can clean up the rink for the ice princess,” Logan declared, not taking his eyes off Ava for a moment. He heard the shuffle of bodies behind him and held open the door for all the Winter Wolves to exit.
He checked off the faces in his peripheral vision and saw them grab their skate guards, tack them on, and head into the locker room single file. Marc was the last one to leave the ice. He jogged up the ramp once he snapped on his skate guards, but not before he shot Logan a warning look.
Logan brushed off his friend’s silent plea and stared down Ava. It wasn’t hard to do with how he towered, but Ava made a valiant effort to stare back. She looked terribly out of place pretending to be tough; it took Logan's full restraint not to laugh at her.
Ava dropped her bag and nudged it under the bench pushed against the nearby wall. She tucked her skates next to the duffle and started stretching, trying to pretend Logan wasn’t there. She’d turn her head enough to catch a glimpse of him before snapping in the opposite direction.
On the other hand, Logan had no qualms about watching her openly. He hadn't figured out how to prod through the graceful façade she maintained, even while fighting.
"You know, I gave you and the team those extra five minutes out of courtesy," said Ava from her tedious position of pulling her leg to touch the back of her head.
Logan's eyes became as flexible as Ava's body when they rolled to the back of his head, struck with a snarky response in return, "Right, and it wasn't because you showed up late and want to rub in how much of a special star you are."
“You don’t know the first thing about me.”
"And I never want to. Remember to have the Zamboni guy clear the ice after you ruin it with your twirls or whatever they're called. Other people have to use the space, too.”
"Ironic, considering there are dents from rogue hockey pucks in the ceiling. You boys mess up the ice as much as any skater does. You're being petty."
Logan barked out a laugh, "Well, excuse me. Hockey is a harder sport than figure skating. It's difficult to control a rogue piece of rubber and dodge a fight or two versus spinning and jumping all over the ice in a sparkly outfit."
Ava’s eyes narrowed into slits, and she dropped her leg from her head, stomping closer. However, she slowed down when she bent into lunges before reaching the edge of the rink where Logan leaned. She hissed, “I’m sorry you have the grace and control of a drunk elephant then, but I would love to see you try to skate my short program as gracefully as me before running your mouth. I highly doubt you could be even half as good as me with all those muscles taking the energy from your brain.”
“Any day, any time.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”
Logan’s smirk widened when he watched Ava’s face flash through a range of emotions, settle on anger, and leave her visibly pissed. He finally broke the ice princess’s patience with how those warm brown eyes of hers narrowed.
She leveled a finger at him, abandoning her mid-argument stretching entirely, "God, you're such a puckhead!"
Logan stilled momentarily, torn between the urge to gawk that Ava had it in her to cuss and howl about the terrible substitution she used instead. The absurdity of the moment almost made him forget they were fighting, “Did you call me a puckhead?”
His lips pulled a grin he could describe as wolfish, mostly bared teeth, and a fierce amusement for the pitiful attempt at trash-talking. Ava needed some lessons on how to hit below the belt, her words sounding too dainty to be fearsome.
“I was minding my manners. Unlike you, I can try to be polite and preserve my dignity.”
“Doubtful.”
Ava ignored his final jab and pulled her headphones over her head, deciding to tune him out. She bent backward and stretched her legs into splits as Marc returned.
Logan climbed off the ice and snapped on his skate guards, spotting the Zamboni guy descend the ramp and head to the storage room. He leaned on the wall and waited for Marc to join him, watching the Zamboni roll onto the ice.
The two held a long-standing tradition of Zamboni watching after every practice, starting many years before when Logan and Marc were kids waiting for their rides home.
Logan focused on the Zamboni until Ava stepped up to the entrance onto the rink, skate guards in her hand and her skates laced up. She wore her headphones and waited for the Zamboni to roll off the ice before sprinting forward.
Her eager strides transformed into graceful gliding once her first blade connected with the freshly surfaced ice. Ava beelined for the middle, and Logan eyed her from the side of the rink, especially once some of his teammates trailed out of the locker room in casual clothes.
Logan’s eyes jumped between the curious glances of his teammates and Ava, who paused while she fiddled with her headphones. Then, unexpectedly, she kicked into an elegant spin.
Her body became a blur of movement, even when her leg extended behind her. Ava bent herself into different shapes without breaking the rotations of her spin. Someone beside him let out a whispered “wow” and Logan’s hands dug harder into the wall.
Ava’s lithe frame continued to spin and hold all the eyes of the hockey boys in the rink, collecting them as they exited the lockers. She amassed a crowd of starstruck spectators, except Logan, who continued to grapple with the sight in front of him.
Ava became a whole different person when she skated. Even after the few videos he watched of her skating routines, nothing compared to the real-life experience.
When she slowed to a stop and exhaled sharply, the abrupt applause startled her through her headphones. Ava lowered them from her head and gawked at the boys gathered at the rink's edge. Logan remained the only one not clapping or wonderstruck by her demonstration.
His jaw clenched as someone jostled beside him, "How long have you been skating?"
“Me?” asked Ava.
“Yeah! You’re really talented.”
"Oh, thank you! I've been skating since I was old enough to wear skates and get on the ice. My first memories are of skating."
She dared to look bashful while more of the guys pushed to the front, displacing Logan from his spot so they could ask more questions.
“What’s your favorite move?”
“Honestly, I love a bunch of different moves. But if you want to know, I love Lutz jumps and twizzles. Let me show you."
Ava traveled halfway across the rink, holding her arms out and smiling knowingly. A gasp rippled through the crowd when she pushed off the ice and caught air. Even Logan watched until Ava stuck the landing with a flourish of her arms.
She giggled and spun around in what he assumed was a twizzle, returning to the center of the ice. Each spin appeared uniform to the last. Logan noticed how his teammates crammed along the rink's edge, leaning over the wall to get a better view.
Their whispers reached his ears, but the high praises for Ava fizzled the last straw of patience Logan had within him. He overheard something about a competition in Philadelphia from Ava, but he stalked toward the locker room, done with it all.
They could moon over her if they wanted, but Logan refused to participate or kiss her skates like she was the greatest gift to the sport. People wouldn’t fawn over her as hard if she wasn’t so beautiful.
He stormed over to his locker and plopped down on the bench, undoing the laces on his skates. His fingers became nimble with years of practice. As he pulled one boot off, Parsons’ concerned face popped around a row of lockers.
“Logan? Why’d you leave?”
“I didn’t want to listen to the guys salivating for Ava’s attention. It’s embarrassing.”
Parsons stiffened and shuffled in his spot, not meeting Logan’s eyes either. "Honestly, is that such a bad thing? Ava seems nice, and connecting with someone who skates at the Olympic level might be cool."
In his haste to get up, Logan knocked over his second boot while pulling it off. He yanked open his locker and scoffed, "Do I have to remind everyone that Ava is why we have less practice time? Or that she likes the spotlight too much to share with us? I don't want anything to do with her. She's not our friend, no matter how prettily she smiles for the imaginary cameras."
He put his skates into his bag and swapped for his worn-down sneakers. Parsons stayed silent, a wise decision because of the foul mood he found himself in.
Logan grabbed his stick, slung his duffle over his shoulder, and huffed at Parsons’ fidgety posture. He brushed past him without another word, figuring the silence could do all the talking. Ava’s smirking face intruded into his mind, those eyes sparkling devilishly, and he grimaced.
His team needed to be more focused on what mattered. Logan refused to be the only one who cared about the state of affairs. He deserved a better season than one plagued by Ava’s inescapable presence tainting his chance to be somebody.