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 . . .”