Chapter 116 Chapter 115
Logan POV
My phone buzzes the second I step away from the chaos.
I don’t even look at the screen at first. I already know.
There are only a few people who call instead of text.
Cole, when something’s on fire.
Daniel Meyers, when something’s on fire publicly.
And my father…
when he wants to remind me what my life is supposed to be.
I exhale through my nose and answer.
“Yeah?”
There’s no hello on his end.
Just that familiar, clipped tone.
“Scouts were at the last two games.”
My shoulders tense automatically.
Of course they were.
“They’ve been around all season,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies, unimpressed. “But now they’re watching closely. They’ve seen some improvement.”
That should feel like praise.
It doesn’t.
It feels like a warning.
“And you need to buckle down,” he continues. “Focus on the prize. Getting drafted isn’t a dream, Logan. It’s the only thing that matters right now.”
My jaw tightens.
“I know.”
There’s a pause, then the faint sound of his breath.
He’s measuring me, even over the phone.
“You’ve been distracted lately.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he says sharply. “You’re inconsistent. You disappear for stretches. You get in your own head.”
I swallow hard.
The irony nearly makes me laugh.
If he knew what was actually in my head, he’d lose it.
There’s a crash of chairs somewhere behind me, a girl calling for more tape, the constant hum of setup chaos.
My father hears it.
“What’s that noise?”
I hesitate.
Then, because lying is exhausting—
“I’m at the arena. We’re setting up for that charity auction.”
Silence.
Then—
“The auction,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.
“The hockey team and one of the sororities,” I add stiffly. “It’s a fundraiser.”
Another pause.
Then his voice shifts.
Not softer.
Just… different.
Calculated.
“Ah.”
I frown slightly.
“That’s good,” he says.
I blink. “Good?”
“Yes,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “Charity work. Community presence. Headlining an event like that is exactly what you should be doing.”
I stare at the floor.
He’s not proud.
He’s approving.
There’s a difference.
“You want to show that side of you,” he continues. “Once you get drafted, your name will be associated with more than goals and stats. Charities want you. Sponsors want you. People want the story.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“It’s not always about the game,” he says, voice firm. “It’s about your image.”
I swallow hard.
My image.
My father’s favorite word.
As if I’m something to be marketed.
Polished.
Controlled.
Appealing.
“You understand?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“You want to look… likable,” he adds. “Approachable. The golden boy. That matters.”
Golden boy.
The phrase makes my stomach twist.
Because standing in that hallway with Harper didn’t feel golden.
It felt messy.
Human.
Real.
And my father hates real.
He likes trophies.
He likes headlines.
He likes clean narratives.
He doesn’t like feelings.
He doesn’t like complications.
He doesn’t like Harper Lane getting under my skin.
I keep my voice neutral.
“It’s just an auction.”
“Nothing is just anything,” he snaps. “Everything is optics. Everything is a test.”
My chest tightens.
“I know,” I repeat.
He exhales.
“Good. Then keep your head on straight. Scouts are watching. Boosters are watching. The school is watching.”
His voice sharpens.
“And I’m watching.”
There it is.
The weight I’ve carried my entire life.
I close my eyes briefly.
“I have to go,” I say.
A pause.
Then, gruffly—
“Do what you need to do tonight. Smile. Shake hands. Be the captain.”
Captain.
Not Logan.
Not a person.
A role.
A product.
A future draft pick.
“Don’t screw it up,” he finishes.
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a second too long.
The noise of the arena rushes back in.
Tape.
Laughter.
Volunteers calling names.
Harper somewhere in the middle of it, commanding the room like she was born to hold chaos together.
And my father’s voice still echoes in my head.
It’s about your image.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, jaw tight.
Because the problem is—
For the first time in my life…
I don’t know which prize I’m supposed to be chasing anymore.