Page 14 of The Risk Taker

Mom glances up at him, her brows knitting together. “He’s not even halfway through the season. Don’t rush him.”

“I’m not,” Dad says quickly, holding his hands up. “I’m just saying… It’s good to know people are watching.”

He shoots me a wink and I glance down, stabbing another piece of chicken on my fork, though my appetite’s shot.

People arealwayswatching.

Especially when your dad’s the coach.

“What I’m saying is, you’ll have options,” Dad adds with a proud smile on his face, which crushes me. “You’ve earned it.”

I nod again because it’s easier than saying anything else. Because they’re all looking at me like this is what I’ve always wanted.

And how the hell do you tell your dad that the thing he’s proudest of you for… might not be the thing you want at all?

5

LOGAN

Off-days aren’t really off-days. That’s the first thing you learn in college hockey. Coach calls it “recovery,” but somehow we still end up sweating our asses off in the weight room with twenty guys who’d rather be anywhere else.

It’s loud as hell. The room is filled with the sound of weights clanking, Austin’s crappy playlist blaring through the speakers, and one of the rookies grunting like he’s giving birth.

I drop my bag by the wall and roll my shoulders until something pops. Cole’s in the far corner, a barbell pressed to his chest as he bench-presses. He’s got that same stone-cold face he wears on the ice, the one that says he’d rather die than talk to anyone.

“Drive through your heels, Reed! Let’s go!” I turn my head and see Austin standing beside Ryan like the world’s most annoying personal trainer.

Ryan groans, pushing through a set of Bulgarian split squats. “You’re not my coach.”

“I could be,” Austin fires back.

Ryan grunts as he finishes another rep. “Do your own fucking workouts and leave me alone.”

“Taking a break,” Austin says, blowing out a breath. “My ass hurts from all the squats.”

Ryan lets out a scoff, his stance wobbling slightly.

My gaze sweeps the room, my eyes catching on Nathan sitting on a bench in the corner and glancing down at a notebook. I almost scoff. Of course. He probably logs how many hours of sleep he got and how many times he blinked during drills.

I wander over, leaning on the bar next to him. “What you doing?”

He glances up at me for barely a second before glancing down again. “Tracking my numbers.”

I shake my head, half-smiling. “Riveting,” I mutter.

“You should try it sometime,” he says. “Might help your stats.”

I let out a low laugh. “Is it color-coded?” I ask, squinting over Nathan’s shoulder, trying to get a peek.

That earns me a quick, unimpressed glance before he stands, sets the bar, and lies back on the bench.

I decide to quit bugging him and actually do what I came here for.

The next hour’s a blur, leaving me tired as hell and reeking of sweat. By the time I’m done, my arms are shaking and my shirt’s plastered to my back. I sit up on the bench, drag the hem of my shirt over my face to wipe the sweat off, and let out a low groan. My abs burn and my shoulders ache. I really don’t know how some guys like to work out. I fucking hate it.

The gym has started to empty out as some of the early comers finish up their workouts, but Nathan’s still at it. His form’s perfect, obviously, because God forbid his back be five inches off.

When he presses the bar up again, his shirt lifts just enough to show a sliver of skin and tight abs. My eyes snag there for a second, before I look away.