by Kendall Ryan
As I approach the house, I take note of the details. It’s cheery looking, two stories with bluish-gray siding and fieldstone accents. Cedar pillars flank the stone porch. Shutters are in need of a new coat of paint. A potted juniper sits to the left of the large front door.
Before I can reach the door, it opens, and a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length hair and kind blue eyes steps out.
“Can I help you, honey? Are you lost?”
I straighten my shoulders and extend my hand. “I’m Summer Campbell. The team sent me.” Sort of. “I’m looking for Logan.”
She gently shakes my hand, breaking into a smile. “Oh, come on in then. He’s inside warming up.”
Without anything further, she leads me inside. The foyer is large, with storage for coats and boots, and I set my bags on a bench before following her. The living room is warm and inviting with a large fireplace lit with a cozy fire. The windows look out onto endless green, and the whole house smells faintly of damp wool and cinnamon.
An older man with a gray beard rests in a recliner in front of the fireplace, reading a newspaper.
“Forgive me. I’m Jillian, Logan’s mother. And this is Grandpa Al.” She gestures to the man.
He lifts his head to get a look at me. “Albert Tate. Nice to meet you. Jillian, offer the lady something to drink.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a tenderness to him too.
“Oh yes, how rude of me.” Jillian touches her cheek, then looks toward the other room. “Logan, Summer’s here to see you,” she calls out.
A man is standing in the dining room watching us, and I don’t know how I didn’t notice him before. He’s very tall, and well, he’s . . . enormous. His T-shirt hugs his biceps, which are huge and muscular. His dark brown hair is rumpled, possibly from the knit hat he holds in one hand. His eyes are blue, like his mother’s, but with none of the same kindness.
When he takes a step closer, a spike of something hot and unfamiliar races through me. I’ve never been attracted to a potential client before, and it’s disorienting.
“Hi, um, Logan. I’m Summer, a sports psychologist.” I gesture to myself.
His eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. Apparently, I’m not off to a great start.
I try to smile, but I fear it looks less inviting and more calculating. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he says in a deep voice that causes my stomach to jump.
Weird. That’s never happened before.
I clear my throat. “I’m . . . sorry? Your season is hanging in the balance, and—”
He stalks closer. “Actually, I do have something to say. Did you follow me all the way here from Boston?”
“Follow you? Um . . . no.” I glance at Jillian, who’s smiling nervously at me. I clear my throat. “I came here to help you get back on the ice. And since you weren’t returning my calls or emails . . .”
My surprise at his willingness to just outright refuse my help must be written all over my face. Inhaling sharply, I turn toward his mother for reinforcements.
“How about some tea? Can I get you some tea, Summer?” Jillian asks sweetly.
“No tea,” Logan says, his voice a deep rumble. “She’s not staying.”
“That’s crazy,” Jillian says, scolding her son. “She came all the way here. Let the girl warm up and at least hear what she has to say.”
I’m liking her more and more.
Logan exhales, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Fine. You have five minutes.”
Turning back to me, Jillian grins. “Great. Would you like chamomile or English breakfast? I have coffee too.”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving off her hospitality.
“Get her one of those cinnamon buns with her coffee, Jill,” Grandpa Al calls out from his armchair.
“Okay, that would be lovely,” I say cautiously, giving her a grateful smile. At the mention of food, my grumbling stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, which was an awful breakfast burrito at the airport that I only managed a few bites of. It hardly counts as breakfast.
I’m sensing that while Logan might not want me here, his mother and grandfather seem to understand my presence here is important for his future. I guess that’s one tick in the plus column.
Taking a deep breath, I follow Jillian to the kitchen. She gestures for me to take a seat at the table while she retrieves a mug from the cabinet. I follow her instructions, pulling out a sturdy wooden chair and sitting down.
The kitchen is large with plenty of cabinets, all painted in a soft gray color. Healthy plants fill the window box, and there’s a big bowl of fruit on the table, along with a half-finished puzzle. It’s a family home—the kind I always dreamed about while growing up, but never got to experience. Complete with creaky wooden floors and books overflowing from the bookcases.
I ramble when I’m nervous, so it’s no surprise that I begin filling the empty silence with nonsensical chatter. “It’s a lovely property you have here. So serene.”
“Cream or sugar, honey?” Jillian asks, holding up the coffee carafe.
“Both, please.”
As she pours me a coffee, Logan wanders in and leans against the doorway, appraising us. His cool, indifferent gaze makes me nervous.
Jillian places a steaming mug of coffee before me and sits down. Folding her hands on the table before her, she meets my eyes. “So, you were saying you’re a sports . . .”
“Psychologist, yes.” I take a sip of my coffee.
People get nervous when they hear that word, but they shouldn’t. I’m as non-threatening as they come. I mean . . . if they only knew. My own life is kind of a dumpster fire at the moment. But I doubt that’s what they want to hear, so instead, I launch into my backstory.
“After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in sports medicine, I interned for Les—um, Les Benson, he works for the Titans.” I look to Logan, because surely he knows who Les is, but he looks completely disinterested. “Anyway, I worked for him while getting my master’s degree in psychology. And after I graduated and started working with athletes, I quickly learned that stretching and taping sore muscles wasn’t going to fix their injuries, when a lot of them ran much deeper than that.”
Jillian is nodding along, but Logan hasn’t said anything else. So I just continue.
“Sometimes they need things a physical therapist can’t provide. Like counseling, or someone to talk to. Help dealing with performance anxiety. Or overcoming obstacles to improve their performance. A lot of times those things are mental, not physical.”
I pause for a moment, letting my words sink in. I’m guessing this may describe Logan, because by all appearances, he looks normal and healthy.
“Anyway, all of this made me want to start my own business, so I did, shortly after graduating.”
Jillian’s mouth tilts up in a smile.
It may sound impressive that I started my own company, but it’s tricky. I need to win over clients—paying clients—if I want to succeed and keep a roof over my head. Now that I have this opportunity, I refuse to blow it. I didn’t fly across the country to fail. If I can get him back out on the ice, scoring goals, it will go a long way toward building my professional reputation.
Logan still stands glowering at me in the doorway, his back ramrod straight, not saying a word.
I’m off to a stellar start.
God help me.
3
* * *
LOGAN
Nothing in my life makes sense anymore, not since Dad died. And now being home, seeing the worry lines on my mom’s face, and how much slower Grandpa is at getting around, hockey is the furthest thing from my mind.
And this chick . . . Summer with her sharp tongue and inquisitive eyes, thinks she can just stroll in here and fix me? Not a chance.
Summer and my mom have been chatting for the past forty minutes, so I wandered outside to check on the firewood situation behind the shed, wanting to clear my head. It does
fuck-all to help. Maybe if I hadn’t been so blindsided by this . . . maybe if she wasn’t a complete babe, I’d have a shot at acting somewhat normal. Instead, I’m acting like a dick.
But, hey . . . I guess that’s what I do best these days.
And what did anyone expect? I can’t be forced into talking about my feelings with a complete stranger. Especially not someone my own mother gave the last cinnamon bun to. I mean, fuck.
My season has been doomed from the start, and now that I’m here, the idea of leaving again has me feeling more uncertain than ever about what I want my future to look like. And while it’s true that I’ve had anger issues since my dad died, and there’s family turmoil, I highly doubt Summer is going to be the one to help me.
The fact is, it’s hard being a thousand miles away trying to play hockey when you can’t get your head in the game because you’re constantly worried about what’s going on back home. How is she going to fix that? Wave a magic wand and make everything right in my world? Come on, life just doesn’t work that way.
When I walk back inside, Grandpa Al has joined them in the kitchen. He’s helped himself to a slice of brisket left over from lunch, which won’t be good for his cholesterol, but you try telling him that. And he’s laughing at some story Summer is telling them.
“Unless you count a really stubborn racoon last summer, no, no roommates,” she says with a smile.
Grandpa Al chuckles, and even Mom seems too enamored with Summer to scold him for stealing a slice of the leftover brisket.
My mom pats Summer’s hand before her gaze lifts to mine. “Logan, will you set up Summer in the Evergreen cabin?”
I stiffen. She can’t be serious. “A word, Mother?”
Mom follows me into the living room, her brow knit with confusion. “Just hear her out, honey,” she says soothingly.
“Whose side are you on?”
“There’s no sides here.”
My life is sports. There are always sides.
“She can’t stay here,” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
“Why on earth not? She’s offering to help you, and as far as I can tell, you need the help. Do not blow this. Plus, have you seen the girl? She’s gorgeous, and she’s really sweet. I like her.”
“Mother.”
“Well, she is.” Mom plants her hands on her hips.
“Don’t meddle in the boy’s affairs, Jillian,” Grandpa Al calls from the kitchen.
I knew they could hear us. Damn house isn’t big enough.
“Thanks, Gramps,” I say with a defeated sigh, heading back into the kitchen as Mom trails behind me again.
“Anytime, kid.” He grins at me. “You just get better so you can get out on the ice again. And speaking of . . . I still haven’t gotten those hockey tickets you promised me.”
“You can’t fly, Al. It’s bad for your blood pressure,” Mom says, scolding him.
My gaze drops to Summer, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Maybe she isn’t used to family drama. Maybe her own family is comprised of perfectly normal people who don’t constantly argue and meddle in one another’s lives. I have no idea what that would be like.
Seeming to sense her discomfort, Mom gives me another stern look before putting a comforting hand on Summer’s shoulder. “We’re going to get you set up in the cabin. Don’t ever let it be said that the Tates aren’t hospitable.”
“Thank you. That’s very generous of you,” Summer says, her gaze shooting to me to read my reaction. Which is less than enthusiastic.
“Dinner will be at six, honey,” Mom adds.
Summer shakes her head. “Oh, thank you, but you don’t have to . . .”
“Oh yes I do. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any restaurants or take-out places nearby. And the cabin’s kitchenette is basically just a kettle and a hot plate.”
Summer fidgets nervously before rising to her feet. “Okay then. If you insist.”
“I do. And it’ll give me the chance to grill you about where you got that adorable scarf.”
Summer smiles. And then everyone is silent.
Why is this so awkward? Why did she come here?
“Ahem.” Mom stands there glaring at me.
“I’ll show you the cabin,” I mutter begrudgingly.
Mom’s grimace turns into a smile. Nothing makes her happier than good manners.
I shove one hand in my pocket and look over to Summer. “Ready?”
“Sure,” she says with a nod. “After you.”
In the foyer, I shoulder her bag. She must not have packed very much, which bodes well for me, because hopefully that means she won’t be here for long.
We start along the path toward the back of the property where two cabins sit at the river’s edge. Our boots crunch on the fallen pine needles on the walking path. It’s already gotten cold this fall, and there’s an early snow in the forecast later this week.
“Those the only shoes you have?” I ask, noticing the high heels on her boots.
“Yeah.”
I shake my head. “And your only coat?”
“What?” she says, blinking at me with an annoyed look. “How could I know you’d live on the side of a mountain in the middle of a dang forest?”
I smirk. Her choice in footwear told me that much. “Fair point.”
I guess it was pretty ballsy of her following me out here.
“So . . . you’re from Colorado originally?” she asks, her voice pleasant and hopeful.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say, ignoring her question.
Summer’s steps falter, but only for a second. “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
My gaze jumps to hers briefly. “Nope. Never, actually.”
Summer hurries along beside me, her long legs working to keep up with me. “If I can work with you, it will mean everything for my business.”
I stop abruptly, facing her with a scowl. “You want to fix me? I’m not a broken toy you can piece back together.”
Summer nods. “That’s exactly what you are. You’re a very valuable asset to the Titans organization, and they need you pieced back together. If you’re serious about your career and want to get back on the ice, this is your chance, so why not let me help you?”
I inhale sharply but don’t say anything else. My struggles are no one’s business but mine, and I want to keep it that way.
We reach the cabin in silence, and I pull open its door and test the lights. Everything looks normal. She might have roomed with a raccoon before, but I doubt she’d want to tonight.
I set her bag on the porch and give her a nod. “See you at dinner. Don’t be late.”
Then I turn and head back toward the house, developing a new plan with each step I take.
I’ll just have to set my attraction to her aside. She can’t stay here. And I’m going to see to that.
4
* * *
SUMMER
After spending a chilly night alone in the cabin, I dig through my duffel bag, looking for something warm to wear. A dusting of snow has fallen overnight and I’m sure the temperature has dropped. I settle on a warm fleece sweater and jeans, and then pull my hair into a low ponytail.
Last evening, I went up to the house at six and had dinner with Jillian, Grandpa Al, and Logan’s oldest brother, Graham. Logan wasn’t there, and no one said a word about him.
Jillian tried to be accommodating by bringing me into the conversation and making me feel welcome, but I still felt awkward about the entire thing. After dinner, I helped by loading the dishwasher, not wanting to eat and run, but then I got the heck out of there and disappeared into the cabin.
Les called, but I let it go to voice mail, too chicken to answer. I didn’t want him to know that I was hiding out in some remote cabin alone all night long because Logan refused to speak to me. I don’t do well with failure, but there was little I could do if Logan flat-out refused and disappeared into thin air.
I spent the rest of
the evening bundled up in the cabin’s double bed, reading over the files Les had sent me. Unfortunately, they weren’t much help.
Logan was an active and reliable member of the team last season. This past summer, his father died unexpectedly, and Logan went home for a few weeks to attend the funeral and be with his family. He returned to Boston in time for training camp and performed well, so it was a shock to the team, its owner, and the coaches that he’d struggle going into the season. Those struggles led to his current and very serious suspension.
Deciding that I’m in desperate need of coffee to help warm up, I put on my jacket and head up to the house. I figure if I’m going to gain Logan’s trust, a little family recon might be necessary.
Graham only said about three words the entire evening, but Jillian and Grandpa Al are both fairly chatty. I learned that the Tate clan is bigger than I realized. After Graham came Austen, Matt, and then Logan. Apparently all three older brothers live on the property. Logan was the only one who moved away—to pursue his dream of playing hockey—but now I wonder if he feels guilty about that. With his dad gone and the rest of his family left here to run things… It’s something I’ll try to get to the bottom of while I’m here.
When I reach the house and let myself inside, I’m immediately struck by the volume of noise coming from the kitchen. It’s so different from the almost eerily silent evening I spent alone in my cabin. The sound of arguing, of loud male laughter, and someone shouting about whoever took the last cup of coffee, echoes through the house.
I pause by the door and almost consider fleeing. But that’s not me. I don’t run from challenging situations. I can do this. So I stand up taller and remove my jacket, hanging it with my scarf on a hook in the foyer.
The first thing I notice is how much smaller the kitchen seems today. It’s filled with bodies. Large male bodies. Jillian shoos someone away from the counter with a kitchen towel.
“Oh, Summer, there you are. I was worried we’d have to send a search party out into the woods.”
